


Tossy

by WrecklessImagine



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Acceptance, Angst, Case, Depression, F/M, Fighting, Loss, Love, Smut, Sociopathy, Tossy, Triggers, breakdown - Freeform, criminal minds - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-05-31 06:12:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 27,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6459013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrecklessImagine/pseuds/WrecklessImagine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the reader is pulled from her dark, isolated existence into the limelight of the BAU to help with cases, Aaron Hotchner eventually hires her on to the team, much to their objection.  With her doldrum attitude and her heartless remarks, will the team be able to work with such an ice queen?  Will they ever come to accept the reader’s apparent sociopathy?</p>
<p>But, most of all, will the reader feel comfortable enough admitting that she isn’t what she seems?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mask

“Hello?”

Raising his fist to knock again, Morgan huffs as he cocks his stature to the side.

“FBI. Open up, please.”

Rolling your eyes as you get up from your chair, you toss your book over into the corner before slinking over to the door.

“You wanna take this one?” you hear the deep voice mutter.

“Not unless someone wants to purchase me a new door,” you lilt blankly, swinging the door open as your deadpan Y/C/E eyes take in the two agents standing before you.

“Miss…Y/N?” the dark agent asks, his brow furrowed as he slowly looks back at the other man with him.

“Yep,” you say, popping your “p”.

“We need you to come with us,” the darker man says.

“Why?” you shoot back.

“We would enjoy it,” the other man interjects, shooting the dark man a stern look, “if you came with us, because we believe your expertise would be useful in a particular case we are working.”

“Flattery gets you nowhere,” you drone, your eyes grazing over to the man with the stern eyes as you hear the dark one huff.

“Guess her file was right,” he mutters.

“Depends on what was said,” you drone, panning your gaze over to his.

“Says you’re not one for manners,” the agent bites.

“When given, ye shall receive,” you say, your eyes moving back over to the man you would eventually come to address only as Aaron.

Eventually.

And that was how it all started. That is how the BAU department of the FBI swept into your life. Your doldrum, repetitive, caged existence, pulling you from your books and your dark, dank corners and your research journals and your erratic grooming methods and tugged you into a twisting world of interesting minds and spiraling criminals.

A world that, in any psychology office, would have dictated you ruler.

Dictator.

Queen.

Queen of the Spirals.

It’s easy for a world as basic as the BAU to assume that they are knowledgeable because of the sheer amount of good work they produce, but when “experts” in their field default to the belief that sociopathy and psychopathy are they same thing, you know you are dealing with amateurs.

Case and point? You.

At last, what you portrayed as you.

You had gone from helping with one case, to consulting on a few cases, to Aaron calling you into his office and handing you a position on the team.

Needless to say, the chocolate one wasn’t impressed.

“Hotch, you can’t just hire a psychopath to work on this team. We…we put people like her in jail!”

“People like me that commit crimes,” you say, not looking up from your file folder as you take a seat on the far end of the table in the briefing room, “you seem to forget that I haven’t committed any.”

“Yeah, but your skewed moral compass dictates you probably will in no time,” he scoffs.

“Right now, you’re lookin’ like a nice candidate,” you robotically lull.

“Did you just threaten the life of a federal agent?” he asks, turning his body and puffing out his chest.

“No. I threatened the life of a rude, insolent, pretentious, bombastic over-grown man-child who uses the literal size of his dick to make up for the proverbial size of his intelligence.”

“Enough,” Aaron states, his words cutting through your mindset as you flicker your deadpan gaze up to him.

“We have four dead girls and two reported missing in the area,” you say, flapping your folder in your hands as you hear someone clear their throat.

“She..she’s actually not a psychopath,” Spencer interjects.

“What?” Morgan breathes.

“He’s right,” you admit freely, “the DSM-5 published in 2013 categorizes my particular ASPD as sociopathy. Just not classic sociopathy.”

As Morgan shoots a confused and exasperated look around the room, Rossi’s mouth upticks into a sly grin as Spencer begins to whirl his hands around in the air.

“Correct. While Y/N has a disregard for social norms and cues, and doesn’t feel any sort of remorse or guilt for the things that she says around us or for disregarding protocol on the few occasions that she has, she is also educated, organized, able to focus, and doesn’t seem to have flair-ups of anger.”

Turning your head slowly, your eyes connect to the side of your colleague’s face, burrowing a hole into his temple as he clears his throat nervously as he continues talking.

“A-a-at least…no flair-ups that we see personally,” he finishes.

“So…what? She…she’s a ‘sorta’ sociopath?” Morgan asks.

“This is getting old,” you drone.

“We can discuss this later,” Hotch bites, glaring at Morgan as he turns his attention back to his folder.

The genius was right. In order to have a definition of classic sociopathy, one would also need a disorganized mind, a withdrawn social status, be uncomfortable enough in physical surroundings to never be able to hold down a job (or acquire an education), and also be unable to form deep emotional attachments to people or things.

However, in order to have a definition for “classic” sociopathy, one also needed deviations.

Skews from the norm.

After all, that’s all psychology really was.

Defining skews from “the norm.”

Maybe it’s a sociopath that’s organized.

Or a sociopath that’s able to form emotional relationships over long periods of time.

Or a sociopath that can putz through an education, or even be able to study and learn enough social cues to be able to conduct themselves in a job.

It was these traits, these…deviations…that you were banking on.

After all, a doctorate in Abnormal Psychology doesn’t just come in handy for diagnosis and catching criminals.

It also comes in handy when creating facades.


	2. Guilt

The cases were boring.

Maybe not boring.

_Stereotypical._

Guy killing women because of mommy issues.

Guy killing lookalikes because of wife issues.

Guy killing kids because he lost his unfairly.

Even guys killing families because...well...no erections or some such nonsense.

It surprised you how many men were fueled by the “I can’t get it up” clause.

Sighing as you lean your head against the airplane window, your eyes glance upon the clouds below, your gaze glossing over as your mind wanders to other things.

Like the softness of your bed.

The comfort of a warm bath.

The swirling amber liquid in those beautiful glasses...

“Hey there.”

Ignoring the lilting voice of the doctor, you continue to swim within your own reality, your bubble of comfort slowly evaporating with every word that pours from the doctor’s mouth.

“How are you doing?” he asks.

Small talk.

You are shit at small talk.

“Fine,” you answer.

“In numerous conversations, it’s been noted by many men that when a woman says ‘fine,’ it actually means the opposite.”

Slowly panning your gaze over to the awkwardly smiling doctor, you blink slowly before taking in a long pull of oxygen through your nose.

“So it makes you happy that I’m ‘fine,’ Doctor?” you retort.

You watched as his smile quickly fades away.

“Oh, no! No, no...I-I-I just, uh...”

“Sink your talons into someone your own size, Y/L/N,” Morgan pipes up from behind.

“Well you weren’t around, so I figured the slowest of the heard would do, dad,” you enunciate.

You saw a light-bulb go off above Spencer’s head, his eyes dancing around your body, trying to read your heavily-guarded posture.

A bulb which signaled to him your tone of voice with the word “dad.”

A light-bulb which, in any other circumstance, would have denoted that you might have daddy issues yourself.

Better luck next time, kid.

“I just...wanted to make sure you were alright. You didn’t talk much this case, just sort of tagged along and watched,” he says, jamming his hands into his pockets.

“If you remember correctly, Doctor, I was the one who solved the case,” you say, locking your gaze with him.

“Yeah,” he snickers, nodding his head lightly, “yeah, I guess you were...”

“And at any rate,” you continue, lulling your head over as your gaze returns to the window, “you talk enough for all of us.”

You saw his facial expressions sink out of the corner of your eye.

“Well, uh...nice...nice talkin’ with you,” he says, turning his body away from you and walking back to his seat.

“Don’t bother, kid, she’s just a cold-hearted person,” Morgan muses as you hear Spencer flop back down into his seat, huffing lightly to himself.

“Never say things you don’t mean,” you mumble to yourself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Opening the door to your house, you step through the threshold of your ranch-style home, setting your caribiner full of keys on the kitchen table as you pull out your slim-clip wallet from your back pocket, tossing it beside your keys as you shrug your coat off.

You hated purses.

Purses always got snatched.

No one ever said anything about “slim-clip wallet” snatches.

Meandering over to the couch by the fireplace, you glide up to the antique globe in the corner, twisting a knob at the side that unlocked the top as you flip it up, revealing your impressive collection of Brandy’s and Scotch’s, along with your nice crystal glasses.

You had waited days for this moment.

Taking a glass in your hands as you stride back to your freezer, you open it up and remove the top of your ball ice cube tray, taking the rounded chunk of ice in your hands and plopping it down in your glass.

The tinkering sound it caused sent your saliva glands into overdrive.

Walking back over and taking the glass top off of the Scotch container, you pour yourself a solid three fingers, the golden liquid sloshing around the ice like the ocean trying to erode away the cliffs.

The sound of the sloshing was comforting within the dark confines of your house.

Sinking down onto your couch as you bring the glass to your lips, you close your eyes as you draw in the warm liquid, the burn in your throat soothing your fluttering eyelids shut as you let out a long sigh.

How you loved the feel of it running over your tongue and trickling down your throat.

Panting lightly, you bring the glass back to your lips, taking the rest of the drink into your mouth in one big pull, gulping it down as the rest of your steel barricades come ricocheting down, your back sinking into the couch as a lone tear escapes down the side of your face.

Guilt.

Your guilt was eating you alive.

Clenching your jaw as you throw yourself to your feet, you reach for the Scotch as you pour yourself another three-fingered glass, determined to fall asleep before your emotions got the best of you.

Alcohol was never for getting drunk.

Alcohol was for sleep.

Alcohol was for numbness.

Alcohol was for...for memories...

Emotional disconnect was the best decision.

Your emotional disconnect was what gave you your ability to socialize.

To step out of those doors in the morning.

Your emotional disconnect helped you to see your purpose...

It was the right decision.

And, quite frankly, in your eyes, it was the only decision.


	3. Wisconsin

Groaning as you hear your alarm go off for the fourth time that morning, you grab it off of your nightstand and throw it at the wall, hearing the cheap plastic device shatter into pieces as you press the heels of your hands into your eyes.

Four three-fingered glasses of Scotch on an empty stomach was a bad idea.

Hearing something begin to vibrate, you reach blindly over for your phone, the vibrating entity wiggling the tips of your fingers as you swipe the screen haphazardly and put it up to your ear.

“Y/L/N,” you croak.

“Morning, sleepyhead!” Garcia chirps.

Penelope Garcia.

The colorful, talkative, nosey-tech-genius that never seemed to be bothered by your apparent lack of emotion or your consistently rude demeanor.

Precious, _precious_ Penelope.

“Hate to ruin your weekend, but we gotta big one,” she says.

“Be there in 30,” you groan as you raise yourself up out of bed, your head spinning as your eyes struggle to focus.

“Make it 20!” she sing-songs, clicking the phone call off as you drop the phone on the floor.

Sighing as you shake your head, you look over at your go-bag and groan again, realizing you’ll have to repack it.

Meaning you’d have to choose between a coffee or a shower.

Coffee?

Shower?

Coffee?

Shower?

Shuffling lazily into your bathroom as you take a look at your tired eyes, your eyes pan over to your deodorant and body spray, a ghost of a smile gracing your plump lips as you reach for a hair-tie and begin to pull your hair back.

Coffee.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“How nice of you to grace us with your presence,” Morgan quips as you walk through the door.

“And here I just thought you liked me for my tits,” you drone.

Then you hear a chuckle.

Slowly turning your tired gaze over to the sound, you realize that Spencer is in his seat, chuckling at what you said.

“What? I thought it was funny,” he says, shrugging his shoulders.

“Come on, guys,” you hear Hotch say from on high, “gotta get going.”

“Must be huge,” you murmur.

“Or important,” J.J. adds as she walks up to you, standing by your side as you slowly turn your gaze over to her.

“What?” she asks, shrugging her shoulders as she pats your arm.

“Come on. Let’s get going,” she says, rubbing your back before turning and starting up the steps.

What kind of twilight zone universe had you walked in to?

Slouching up the steps, gulping down your large black coffee with way too much creamer, you plop yourself down at the end of the table, a folder being promptly slapped down in front of you as the rest of the team begins to trickle into their seats.

“Brace yourselves, my beautiful eminems,” Garcia says as she presses a button on her remote.

“Did she just call us candy?” you hear Rossi mutter.

“I prefer Skittles,” you say absent-mindlessly.

As the team slowly turn their heads over to you, you flicker your gaze up as you hike your eyebrows on your face, your eyes jumping from face to face as you pick your coffee back up to your lips.

“I like candy,” you quip sarcastically.

But they just continued to blink at you.

“Six women found in a mass grave in the middle of the woods at the northern-most peak in Wisconsin,” Garcia begins as everyone’s attention slowly pans back over to her.

“Different ethnicities,” Spencer points out.

“Yeah, which means our unsub doesn’t have a specific look,” Morgan adds.

“Are they all single?” J.J. asks.

“Nope. 2 single. 4 married,” Garcia says quickly.

“Same hometown?” Rossi asks.

“Nope. All from the four surrounding cities,” Garcia answers.

“That’s a lot of hunting ground,” Spencer adds, his brow furrowed deep as he flips quickly through the pages.

“Alright. No big similarities. What about places they’ve been? Garcia, run their bank accounts and credit cards. Find out where they went to school, where they graduated, what places they may have frequented, what doctors they see. What grocery stores they shop at. Anything that might give us a clue as to how these women connect.”

“On it, boss,” Garcia says, cutting off the presentation and shuffling off.

“The rest of you? On the plane ASAP. We’re heading to Wisconsin.”


	4. Nickname

Sighing every so often as you continue to stare at the file in your hands, you hear someone sit down in front of you as you clench your jaw.

“Anything standin’ out?” Rossi asks.

“No,” you say flatly.

“You sure?” he asks again.

Another jaw clench.

“Nope,” you say, popping your “p.”

“Okay.”

Keeping your eyes locked onto your papers in front of you, you hear him get up and return to his seat, your heart fluttering in your chest as your worst fear begins to slowly blossom.

Maybe they were catching on.

And then, just as the plane begins to descend into Wisconsin territory, Hotch’s laptop begins ringing.

“Garcia,” he says, turning the computer towards the rest of the team as you continue to keep your back to everyone.

“Alright. I traced everything. Every grocery store, every movie theater, and every bar,” she rambles.

“You got anything, baby girl?” Morgan asks.

“They have nothing in common. Nothing at all. Until I began pulling their medical records,” she says.

“You can do that?” J.J. asks.

“With some swift and smooth magic, my fine feline friend, yes.”

“Well...what is it?” Rossi asks.

Good question.

“They all have been diagnosed with depression,” she says.

Slowly lifting your head up from the folder, your eyes connect with the front of the plane as you feel everyone’s eyes burrowing a hole into the back of your skull.

“Something wrong, Y/L/N?” Morgan asks.

“If there was, you’d be the last to know,” you sigh, returning your gaze to the folder as you begin to jot down notes, your heart racing in your chest as you swallow hard, desperately working to keep it inaudible.

With this new piece of information, it gave you a whole new light with which to shine upon these crime scenes. Everything began to fall into place.

The placement of their hands over respective parts of their bodies, denoting the moment in time that probably sunk them to their lowest, like the 24 year old white woman’s hands over her genitalia or the 47 year old Asian woman’s hands over her heart.

The residual scarring barely visible on the partially covered parts of their skin, denoting various ways to mask, or detract from, the pain they were experiencing in their lives. Like the slash marks on the 30 year old black woman’s outer thigh or the 56 year old Indian woman’s cigarette burn marks partially covered on her upper arm.

These marks told you things. Dominant hands. Dominant appendages. Types of mental states. Hesitancy marks. Confident movements.

As your eyes continue to dart along the pictures, you had completely faded into your own world, failing to realize that the plane had landed and the team was standing around you, waiting for you to register the fact that Hotch had tossed your bag into the seat in front of you.

“Y/L/N,” Hotch trumpets.

Jumping as your hands grip your folder tightly, you whip your head up to your unit chief, your eyes wild with fear before quickly descending back to their deadpan stare, your eyes connecting with his as Hotch’s stern gaze slowly morphs into a softer, more intimate gaze.

“We’ve landed,” he says, the edge in his voice softened by your muted reaction.

“Obviously,” you quip, hearing a light sigh emanate from somewhere behind the crowd.

It wasn’t audible enough to place the voice.

Searching for your bag as you stand from your seat, you lean over to grab it off of the chair as you follow the team off, your mind whirling as you set your feet onto the solid tarmac of the rinky-dink airport.

You heard your boss giving the introductions, and just as he says your name, your worst possibly fear comes to light.

“Tossy?”

Whipping your gaze up as your eyes connect with the oh-so-familiar green eyes of the lead deputy involved with the case, your jaw unhinges as your file folder goes plummeting to the ground, along with your go-bag as your eyes begin to water.

“Y/N?” Spencer asks, stepping towards you as he slowly reaches out for your hand.

“Is she...?” Rossi murmurs, leaning over into Hotch’s ear as Hotch’s gaze darts between the captain and his clearly distraught not-so-sociopathic teammate.

“Sir. Do the two of you know each other?” J.J. asks.

“Yes. We, uh...me and Tossy...we went to college together,” he states.

Of all the people in all of the places on this planet.

You were in such a state of shock that you didn’t even realize your breathing had become erratic until you feel Spencer’s hand sprawl across your chest, his body pressing into your back as you begin to feel the rapid rising and falling of your chest.

You were hyperventilating.

Your cover was being blown.

Your facade was failing.

Your wall was melting into molten lava and running along all of the open, seething, angry cracks of your soul.

If they weren’t questioning you before, they were now.

“Get her to a car, Reid,” you hear Hotch say, your eyes still falling heavily onto the Captain’s face as you finally find the strength to breathe his name.

“Dale.”

“Come on,” you hear Spencer soothe into your hear, “let’s get into a car. We can talk about what you were figuring out about the crime scene photos on the plane.”

Feeling your body move with Spencer, your head continues to slowly pivot on your neck, your eyes staying in contact with Dale for as long as you could muster before slowly panning back around as a black SUV drives up alongside the two of you.

“What the hell just happened?” Morgan asks, turning his stunned gaze to the captain as Rossi crosses his arms across his chest.

“We might be ‘amateurs’, per her words, but unless the two of you have kept up over the years, sociopaths don’t react that way to past stimuli,” Morgan states, his arm thrust out towards the car carrying both you and Spencer towards the home-base police station.

“Have you two kept up since college?” Hotch asks.

“No,” Dale says, his eyes watching the car fade into the horizon as he turns his head back to the remaining part of the team, “not at all.”

“Hotch...” J.J. trails off.

“I know,” he says, his brow furrowed deep and his gaze stern as the realization finally hits him.

“I know.”


	5. Ouch

“Whatcha got written down?” he asks, his tone of voice soft and deliberately calm.

“I’m not a child,” you state plainly.

“I never said you were,” Reid rebuttals.

“Then stop cooing at me,” you say flatly.

“Well, what have you figured, then?” he asks, his voice returning back to normal as he sits back in his seat.

“Nothing concrete...” you trail off.

“Any theory is better than no theory,” he states.

“To amateurs, yes.”

Sighing heavily, you recognize the same lilt in it from the plane earlier.

It had been Spencer who had sighed.

After riding in silence for what seemed like an ice age, the car comes to a stop in front of a small police station.

“Let’s get to work,” you mumble, unlocking your seat belt as you throw it over your shoulder.

“You’re not a sociopath, are you?” Reid asks.

Stopping dead in your tracks as you clench your jaw, you hear Spencer take in a sharp breath as he begins his ramblings.

“It was good at first,” he begins. “Your constant disheveled appearance and baggy clothes. The constant monotone way of speaking and the rude and snarky remarks. The seemingly lack of emotion in every case we take, and your ability to disconnect at ease...and almost at will...from every other personal situation we have almost caught you in.”

You felt your jaw clench again.

“But you have a tell,” he says, holding his magic ace out for you to view, “your jaw. It was Rossi, actually, who first noticed it. How sometimes the banter between you and Morgan would get harsh, and your temple would flex.”

That explains the lingering stares from your older colleague.

Slowly raking your eyes over to him, you connect your deadpan gaze to his as his fiery eyes, full of explanation and curiosity begin to penetrate through your already leaking disguise.

“And then, on the plane, we saw how Rossi talked with you, and how his presence and annoying repetition of the same question caused you to clench your jaw. A-a-and...that’s when I realized that it’s a suppression technique. Whenever you feel any sort of emotion bubbling to the surface, you clench your jaw. It’s a very secretive, very slight movement that helps you to keep things in check, whether it’s the pressure on your bones or whether you’re biting your tongue.”

But all you could do was continue to stare at him...to try and intimidate him with your lifeless glare.

But you knew he was no longer buying your product.

“Here’s what I think,” he continues, shifting his body so that he is cocked in your direction, “I think that you’re brilliant, and that your Ab Psych Doctorate allows you the ability to portray whatever facade you feel the need to take on whenever you decided to mask what’s actually going on with you. And I think...I think you got so good at it that you even convinced yourself. You convinced yourself that you didn’t have a moral code, or...or a capacity to experience emotion or empathy. But...but you do. And if it didn’t show in your suppression technique, then it showed when you heard the deputy’s voice and were shot back to your past with him.”

You felt yourself involuntarily clench your jaw.

“I don’t know why you’ve painted this intricate, solid mask...but I’m going to figure it out,” he admits.

The honesty of his statement made your blood boil.

Breathing with intentional rhythm as your eyes steadily begin to dance along his face, you swallow hard before drawing in a deep, long, pulling breath through your nose.

He seemed to understand you well...your ticks, your involuntary movements, your micro-reactions.

And with a brain like his, interpreting your every motion as if dancing a deadly tango, he would understand the severity of the two words about to fly from your lips that were intended to communicate the severity of the line he had crossed with you.

The severity of forcing you to become vulnerable.

“Ok, Morgan.”

And as your deadpan eyes hold Spencer’s stare, his confident and hardened demeanor slowly sinking into one of hurt and pain, you feel your left hand catch the door handle as you shove the it open with your shoulder.

“And tell Hotch I don’t care who he rooms me with,” you say dully, shutting the door softly as you begin to wander around the back of the SUV, leaving Spencer speechless in the car as he closes his eyes, tears brewing behind his eyes as his hands begin to tremble.


	6. Latest Victim

Staring blankly at the pictures tacked up to the whiteboard, your notes scribbled underneath each picture, you hear someone walk up behind you.

“That makes sense,” Rossi says, his body heat radiating onto your shoulder as your eyes dart along the whiteboard.

Nodding your head slowly as you come up with another theory, you step forward and pick up a marker, uncapping it as you begin to scribble down other questions that need answers.

Doctors?

Psychologist?

Psychiatrist?

Medicated?

What medications?

“I’ll get Garcia on the line,” Rossi lulls, taking his phone from his pocket and hitting a speed dial button.

“How is she?” Garcia asks, forgoing the witty comment in favor of wanting to know what’s wrong with her friend.

“She’s...”

Rossi pauses as he watches you bend over and continue to scribble.

“...immersed,” he says, choosing his word wisely.

“Alright. Well, whaddaya need?” she asks.

“I need a list of the victim’s doctors. Did they see a psychologist or a psychiatrist? If they were medicated, what were they taking? Y/N seems to be having a problem...”

Squinting his eyes as you step back from the board, you furrow your brows deep as the question, written in big, bold, purple letters, reads:

Why no signs of fighting back?

“...because she’s trying to figure out why the women don’t appear to have fought back,” Rossi says, a twinge of amazement injecting into his voice. 

“On it. I’ll compile the data and send it to you to print off for her,” Garcia says, clicking off the phone call as Rossi slowly lowers the phone from his ear.

“I was wonderin’ that same question myself, Tossy.”

Whipping around at the sound of his voice, you audibly draw in breaths through your nose as you try to steady your heart-rate, acutely aware of David’s eyes concentrating on your every move.

“My name is Y/N,” you say, a very light twinge of annoyance in your voice.

“Oh, come on. It’s just a nickname,” he says, stepping closer to you as you lower your voice.

“No. It wasn’t, and you know it,” you say flatly, looking him dead in his eyes as the anger behind your irises begins to flare up, causing Dale to take a step back from you.

Hearing the hustle and bustle of people out in the main room, your gaze slowly pans over Dale’s shoulder, your breath catching in your throat as you see Hotch motion for you and Rossi urgently.

Dropping the marker onto the floor, you make long strides into the room, your mind already whirling as Hotch confirms your fear.

“There’s been another body found,” he begins.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the yellow tape rises for your entrance, you are the first to enter as you stride over to the body, your eyes dancing along the dirty corpse as your deadpan stare begins to register the basics.

“J.J., start taking pictures of the scene,” you hear Hotch order in the background.

Digging around in the pocket of your jacket as you pull out a pair of rubber gloves, you snap them on as you crouch down, slowly lifting the tattered pieces of fabric from the woman’s body as you search for any form of ID.

“Got a wallet,” you drone, flipping it open before handing it off to someone.

You didn’t look up to see who.

“Call Garcia and figure out if Miss Rutger was seeing anyone for depression,” you say to no one in particular.

“Who...who’s Garcia?” the random deputy asks, furrowing his brow as he stares down at your back.

“I’ve got this,” Spencer says, walking up and taking the wallet from the guy as he flips his phone open.

“All hail the idol of knowledge, what’s your sacrifice?” Garcia answers.

“We have another victim...a Molly Rutger?” Spencer says, “We need to know if she was seeing someone for depression, and if she has a husband or any family nearby that we should contact.”

“She’s not married,” you mumble to yourself.

“It doesn’t look like she’s married...” Garcia trails off as Spencer throws a surprised glance in your direction, “but I’m sending you her family contacts as well as the doctor she was seeing. Also, the medication she was on like I have with the others.”

“Thanks,” Spencer says, hanging up the phone call as he turns back to you.

“Y/L/N, she-”

Stopping mid-sentence as he watches the scene in front of him unfold, he hears the rest of the team retreating, calling out for the two of you to stay behind and finish up as Spencer waves them off haphazardly.

Your body, crouched and poised on your toes and fingertips, is bending down to her face as you inhale a deep breath from the caverns of her mouth.

He stands there...rooted to the ground... as he studies your body close, watching your jaw clench as the pattern of your blinking begins to pick up.

He feels his heart begin to flutter ever so lightly.

Furrowing his brow deep as he watches your eyes slowly graze down her body before raking back up to her face, he witnesses you get down on your knees, your hand raising up and placing itself delicately on the victim’s forehead as you smooth her hair back from her face.

And he could have sworn he saw your eyes glistening.


	7. Profile 1.0

“Y/N?” Spencer asks quietly.

But you didn’t answer.

All you could do was smooth her hair back...looking down upon her as if...as if you were looking at a long-lost friend.

Spencer couldn’t believe his eyes. Here was this hardened woman, cold to the core with a sharp tongue to match, kneeling alongside the body of a victim of a disgusting crime, your hand brushing back her hair delicately as you clench your jaw and blink back your tears.  
Your humanity was seeping through the cracks in your icy wall.

And the sight was beautiful to him.

However, it was short lived.

Before he could release the breath he was holding, trying desperately to sear this moment onto the prominent pages of his memories, you were on your feet and snapping your gloves off as you make your way towards the black SUV, tossing them in a nearby trashcan before grabbing the car keys out of your jacket pocket.

“Leave it or walk, Reid,” you lull, clicking the unlock button for the car as it beeps, its doors releasing themselves as Spencer stares after you, his mind still trying to process what he had just witnessed.

You weren’t a sociopath at all.

And now he had proof.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Walking through the police station, you train your sites on Hotch as Spencer follows you close behind.

Spencer’s eyes had been on you the entire ride back.

You couldn’t blame him. It was getting harder and harder for you to emotionally disconnect yourself from this case.

Especially since the discovery of the last body.

Slipping your hand into the crook of Hotch’s arm, you press your fingertips into his skin as he turns his head towards you, his eyes flickering with confusion before his stern gaze appears.

He was analyzing the light pink strings darting away from the irises in your eyes.

“Let me give the profile,” you lilt.

Your tone of voice caused Hotch’s gaze to soften.

Nodding at you as he motions for the rest of the team, Hotch begins to round everyone up into the room as you stand, front and center, your deadpan gaze locked onto the floor as your arms hand limply at your sides.

“We’re looking for a white male in his 30′s who has recently lost someone due to mental illness. The anger that he feels for being left behind is permeating his system. He is killing these women that remind him of the disgusting nature that took his loved one from him, and that kind of anger is hard to keep at bay. He will appear upset and agitated, and he will be easy to rile up, which makes him socially inept, though me may not have always been that way. He’s now a loner. An outsider.”

As the team stares at you, their eyes darting back and forth between each other as your voice begins to drone on, Spencer’s eyes lock onto the back of your head, his mind whirling with facts and peer-reviewed science journals.

There was no way you could know all of this just from the crime scenes.

“He’s also capable of research. Enough to where he knows these women struggle with depression, and even going so deep as to know what first triggered it. Like the woman with her hands poised over her genitalia, signifying her rape when she was 22. So look for men who work in these doctor’s offices these women were going to, or even volunteer places in the area that these women might visit if they can’t get in touch with their doctor.”

“Brilliant,” Rossi murmurs.

“He’ll be driving a large vehicle. Something large enough to haul a body without being conspicuous. Meaning, probably not a large, white van with ‘free candy’ on the side,” you say flatly.

It earned a chuckle from the gathering anyway.

“What about this last body?” someone pipes up.

“What about it?” you ask.

“Her hands weren’t placed anywhere,” he rebuttals.

You weren’t even aware that you had clenched your jaw this time.

But your team was.

“Her hands weren’t placed anywhere because, for this particular woman, there was no starting point to her depression.”

“What do you mean?” a woman asks.

“I mean,” you bite, slowly panning your dead eyes over to her, “that there was no starting point. No trigger. She was just...”

“...she was clinically depressed,” Spencer says as he steps up beside you. Sometimes, people are just wired that way,” he finishes, his eyes flickering over to you, studying your face as your gaze continues to stay locked onto the female officer.

“Alright, everyone,” Hotch says, taking the forefront as you whip your head back to front and center, “let’s get to work.”

Nodding as your body quickly makes its way to the whiteboard on the opposite end of the police station, Hotch pulls the rest of his team aside as he sets his body and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Alright, here’s how this is gonna work,” he begins, “Rossi, J.J., and I will work with the concrete facts. Y/L/N brought up some really good points. Morgan and Reid, you guys continue to work with her theory.”

“You don’t think she’s right?” Spencer asks incredulously, furrowing his brow as Morgan huffs.

“Why do _I_ have to work with that ice queen?” Morgan snickers.

“Because it’s obvious that she isn’t what she portrays herself to be,” Hotch says, his stern gaze hardening as he locks his eyes onto Morgan.

“Not my problem,” he rebuttals.

“I’m not asking,” Hotch bites, bucking up to the muscled mound of chocolate as J.J. pipes up.

“What about Y/L/N’s profile do you think is wrong? Because whatever it is, we need to let the station know,” she urges.

“That’s just it,” Hotch starts, “right now, nothing about it is wrong. But we can also see that she’s very compromised.”

“And you’re concerned that...?” Rossi asks.

“That if the profile _does_ change, she’ll try to skew it to fit hers, rather than just accepting the change.”

And as Spencer turns his body towards you, his eyes locking onto your crooked form across the police station, he finds himself swallowing back the strong emotions welling in his chest as his hands slowly find their way to his pants pockets, his body rocking back and forth on his feet as Morgan turns to stand beside him.

“You ok, kid?” Morgan asks.

But all he could do was shrug.


	8. Mistake

Your first order of business was getting word out to all of the practices and volunteer shelters centered around depression that any age woman that was seeking help for the issue was in danger, and given the sheer amount of territory that he was drawing from, that took quite some time.

Meanwhile, you were on the phone with Garcia.

“Y/N, I’m worried about you,” she coos.

“Don’t be,” you lull, staring at the pictures of the bodies as you pinch the bridge of your nose.

“I’m missing something,” you whisper.

It had been an entire day of notifying and searching, re-combing the dump sites and retracing the evidence, and the team was still no closer to figuring out who was doing this, while at the same time praying that no other bodies would show up.

“Give me something to do. Anything to help,” Garcia coos.

And then, an idea struck.

“Garcia. Is it possible to trace all of the while men in their 30s credit card information in this vast area for anyone spending more than...lets say $300 a week on gas? Because, given the vast area this man is covering, that’s about what he’s pumping out given the territory and the low gas mileage for a large vehicle that would be inconspicuous. This area isn’t known for their hybrids.”

“On it,” she says as you hike your eyebrows onto your forehead, hearing the phone cut off as you puff a bout of air through your nose.

Raising your head up as your phone falls from your shoulder and tumbles to the ground, you close your eyes and take a step back, sitting on the table behind you as you bow your head to the floor.

“Why aren’t they fighting back?” you whisper to yourself.

Something wasn’t adding up. At this point, if you had all of the pieces in place, finding this guy shouldn’t be this hard. You had a working profile, basic facts, and only so many theories that stemmed from the current situation.

Something was wrong with your initial profile.

Cupping your hand over your mouth as you imagine the crime scenes in your head, you begin playing out the faceless man positioning these women at these dump sites...how he would have to lay them down before placing their hands accordingly.

Placing them down denoted some sort of gentleness behind the act.

Then your memory throws you back to the most recent scene, your eyes flying open as you recall your own movements during your more...emotional...episode.

Your motion to smooth the victim’s hair back on her head.

As your eyes fly open, you are oblivious to both Morgan and Spencer standing beside you, Spencer’s eyes trained carefully on your face as Morgan’s gaze darts along the board.

Ripping a picture off as you squint your eyes, you allow it to fall from your fingers as you yank another one off of the board, squinting yet again before letting it drop and ripping yet another one off the board.

“Shit,” you bite.

“Tossy, we’re comin’ up empty...we need somethin’,” you hear Dale croon as he comes walking through the door.

You were mentally kicking yourself for working an entire day off of a faulty profile.

“Dale,” you lull as you lob your gaze towards him, “you call me that name one more time and I’ll unload my clip into your chest.”

Watching his eyes widen as you stride out of the room, bumping Morgan’s shoulder in the process, you murmur a “watch it, chocolate,” before jogging out of the room.

“Why do you call her that?” Spencer asks, turning towards Dale as Morgan’s wide eyes watch you hastily yank Hotch from a conversation.

“I uh...I don’t know. It’s just a nickname she had before we had a class together.”

“What class?” Spencer asks, determined to figure out why the nickname bothered you so much.

“Just a literature class. Reading novels and such.”

“But you guys were Psych undergrads, right? Why were you taking a literature course? For most college undergrads, your English credits come from required English courses, and...at least for my psych degree...the electives were wrapped up into the psych curriculum.”

“I guess we both just needed a break from the psych school,” Dale says, shrugging as Spencer’s eyebrows furrow together, analyzing his every movement.

But the moment of digging was ruined as Morgan elbows Spencer’s arm, the two of them whipping their heads up as they watch Hotch run towards the room, his suit coat barreling behind him as he rounds the corner.

“The profile was wrong. Our unsub isn’t angry. He’s remorseful. Morgan, go with Y/L/N. She’s heading over to the first victim’s house again.”

As Hotch feels his phone vibrate, Morgan pushes past him, sprinting all the way through the police station as he barrels out the front door.

Everyone was shocked that Morgan didn’t question Hotch’s decision to go with you.

“Hotch,” he says, his eyes still wide as his brows furrow even deeper.

“Y/N isn’t picking up her phone. I have the results she wanted,” Garcia says.

“What did she have you do?” Hotch asks, putting her on speakerphone as Spencer and Dale gather around.

“Narrow down all the white males in their 30s spending more than $300 a week on gas in the areas the unsub’s combing,” she rambles out quickly.

“Incredible,” Dale breathes, shaking his head as his eyes widen.

“Yeah. They both are,” Spencer bites, side-glancing Dale as Hotch throws him a confused look.

“Send me your results,” Hotch orders.

“Already done, bossman,” Garcia smiles, “and trust me, the list isn’t as long as you think.”


	9. Caught

Racing across three towns into a small area known as Hubbell, you pull up into the driveway of the first victim’s home as you shut down the car, undo your seat-belt, and throw your door open.

“Hey. Y/L/N,” Morgan says, his hand reaching out to grip your arm as you slowly pan your gaze over towards him.

“You know you don’t have to be someone you’re not around us,” he says, his eyes softening as your gaze hardens.

“If this is your way of getting into my pants,” you begin as you watch Morgan’s lips pull into a straight, taut line, “then rest assured, the women you hit on are just easy.”

Ripping your arm out from his grasp, you start your trek up to the front door as you knock on it lightly, rocking back and forth on your feet as you watch the doorknob slowly turn.

“Hello?” the petite woman asks.

“Hi. FBI,” you say as you quickly flip out your badge, “I just need a few minutes in your house.”

“I-is…is something else wrong?” she asks as a man comes up to the door, his hand resting protectively on the woman’s shoulder as your eyes dart up to him.

“Please excuse my colleague,” Morgan says as he approaches the door, “she doesn’t get let out much.”

“Anything to help,” she says, her voice trembling with emotion as she steps aside, ushering you both into their home.

Barging through their door, you make a beeline for the kitchen, throwing open cabinets as Morgan comes barreling behind you.

“Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa,” he says, gripping your arm tight as he whips your entire body towards him, “now’s a really good time to clue me in on your little escapade.”

“They didn’t fight back, Derek.”

Using his first name caught him off-guard, so much so that his entire face fell.

“These women, who...who were fighting for their sanity, for...for their ability to feel happiness and joy and…a-a-and...and beauty…and they **didn’t. Fight. Back.** ”

Clenching your jaw as you turn your attention back to the cabinets, Morgan sighs as he begins to backtrack towards the couple, now understanding what his boss was talking about earlier, as he slowly turns towards the couple who are staring at you quizzically from the entrance of their kitchen.

“Would it be alright if I took a look in your bathrooms?” he asks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Anything, Reid?” J.J asks, dipping her head into the room.

“Out of the list of 58 men, I have it narrowed down to…seven,” he says as he picks the papers up in his hands, “…seven possible men.”

Rearing up and handing the papers to her with their faces, home addresses, and anything else you could possibly want on them, J.J. nods as she strides out into the police den.

“Run these guys names and faces through every system you’ve got access to,” she says, handing the papers to Dale as he nods and turns himself to his computer screen.

“What kind of criminal activity am I looking for?” he asks, clicking buttons on his slow-moving computer as J.J. bends over his shoulder, watching the screen as it begins to whir with faces.

“Any at this point,” she sighs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“No drugs,” you say as you jam the back of your head into the car-seat cushion.

“Well, the toxicology reports-”

“-only outline drugs found in the system that they routinely test for,” you interrupt.

"Why are you so sure that these girls may have been taking something illegal alongside their medication?" Derek asks, turning his body in the passenger seat and eyeing you pointedly.

"It's not uncommon for someone battling depression, even on medication, to seek out the comfort of something else to aid in combating the...symptoms," you enunciate as you clasp the bridge of your nose in between your fingers. "I just don't understand why-"

“Y/L/N!” Morgan raises his voice.

“What!?” you roar, snapping your cold gaze to his fiery eyes as your chest heaves with emotion

“You’re fixating,” he breathes.

Running your hands wildly through your hair, you squeeze your eyes shut as you shake your head tightly. Opening your eyes, Morgan watches the emotion drain from your eyes, slowly turning you into the cold, calculating person you have been portraying yourself to be.

“Y/L/N…” Morgan lulls, trying to coach the emotion back out of you as you sit up straight in your seat.

“Let’s get back to the precinct. Can you call Garcia and see if she has that list of suspects for me? She was narrowing dow-“”

Feeling your phone vibrate against your hip, you sigh pointedly as you rip it from your pocket.

“What?” you drone.

“We have him," Spencer says, "he fits everything. White male, 34, drives a dark blue truck with a fully-covered bed, been going to anger management for his outbursts that started after his mom died three months ago after a long battle with cancer. Apparently his mom also had a bi-polar disorder."

As your eyes widen, you jam your car keys into the ignition and turn them ferociously, bending the key in the process as you throw the car into reverse, peeling from the driveway as you watch the GPS in the SUV light up with a destination.

“Garcia's sending the address to your car GPS now,” Spencer confirms.

“It says ETA is 23 minutes,” you lull.

“Alright, see you in 15,” Spencer says before hanging up the call.

You felt your cheek twitch ever so lightly at the sentiment.

And Derek caught it, too.


	10. Depression

16 minutes later, you and Derek were whipping into the driveway of a well-to-do, put-together home.

And you swallowed very hard.

“Something’s wrong,” you say aloud.

Seeing the team standing out on the porch, you look over at Derek with a look of concern on your face.

“The profile’s wrong, Morgan,” you say, the slightest shake in your voice, “his house…this man wouldn’t be so-”

“-Yeah,” Morgan says as he interrupts you, his gaze locked on the house in front of him, “I know.”

You felt your stomach drop.

You wanted so badly to be right.

You wanted so badly to think that this man was angry…angry at the loss of a family member. Maybe...maybe even angry at his own personal scenario.

That somehow, these women weren't fighting back for a reason other than themselves.

But that dark voice began to creep up into the back of your head.

And for once, that dark voice was right.

Opening the car door as you climb out of the vehicle, you see Hotch whip his head around, his glare hardening as you start towards the team.

“This isn’t the man,” you say matter-of-factly, Spencer’s eyes locked on you intently as your dead gaze locks onto Hotch’s.

“No, he’s not...but he's coming in for questioning willingly. He says he might be able to help us figure out who it is,” Hotch bites.

You were going to lose your job.

You felt the walls crawling closer...your breathing picking up as the hair on your arms and legs stand to attention as you continue to hold Hotch’s glare.

“Why?” you ask.

That one question handed off the case.

That one question signaled your step down, your back off...your bow to him...as he sighs heavily.

Almost with relief.

“Apparently, this man is very prominent in the area. Says he knows practically everyone. He’s on his way to the station with Rossi and J.J. to look at the facts that we’re working with.”

His enunciation made you clench your jaw.

...and you found yourself no longer caring who saw anymore.

“Alright. Derek and I will head back to the station and-”

“No,” Hotch says.

“What?” you bite.

“Derek and Spencer’ll go back to the station. You’re staying with me,” he says.

“And to what do I owe the honor?” you retort.

“Cut the act, Y/L/N,” he says as he takes a step near you, his body heat radiating onto your skin as you suck in a sharp bout of air through your nose, “any sarcastic retort from here on out will be seen as malicious.”

“Perfect,” you growl.

Feeling a light pressure on your arm, you whip your gaze over to see Spencer’s eyes, dripping with worry and concern, lightly shaking his head at you as his fingers curl around your arm.

“Is there a reason you’re touching me, Dr. Reid?” you ask in mock politeness.

Watching him snicker as he shakes his head, he jams his hands into his pockets as he brushes by you, heading for the car as Morgan shakes his head and turns away, following quickly after the only man on the team whom you had conjured any amount of respect for.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“White male. 30s. Car large enough to transport a body quickly but inconspicuous enough to where no one turns their heads. Just lost someone close to him, probably due to mental illness. Consumes a lot of gas per week traveling around places,” J.J. rattles off, staring at the man as he sits alongside Dale as Rossi crosses his arms across his chest, his eyes staring off into the distance.

“What is it, Agent Rossi?” Dale asks.

“Even though we all know that Y/L/N is distracted, her profile wasn’t completely wrong. And she was asking good questions,” he says, coming to your defense.

“Like why the women don’t look to be fighting back,” Dale comments.

“Y/L/N obviously wanted to think they were being drugged. It’s why she rushed off to see if anything could be found in the houses. Maybe drugs that they would’ve had on them in the first place.”

“The toxicology report didn’t outline any other drugs besides their medications for their depression,” Dale implores.

“And Reid confirmed for us that none of the drugs, when taken together, had any sort of bad side effects,” Derek jumps in as Reid walks up behind everyone.

“So why aren’t they fighting back?” Spencer asks.

“What if they just don’t want to?” the strange man pipes up.

“What do you mean?” Morgan asks, his brow furrowing incredulously as everyone turns their attention to Mr. Lang.

“Look…” he says as he sighs and dips his head, “my mom fought a long time with her issues, and…and there were some times where I would catch her talking to herself, you know?” he starts, sniffling as Dale reaches out and puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, “No matter what medication you put them on, they still battle. And…and sometimes she would talk about how the cancer could be a blessing. Like...like she was almost relieved that something else was doing that she didn’t have the courage to do herself.”

“You think these girls aren’t struggling because they feel relieved that someone is killing them?” Rossi asks, furrowing his brow deep as realization crosses Spencer’s face.

“That explains Y/L/N losing her head,” he murmurs.

“Come again, kid?” Morgan asks, turning his gaze towards his colleague.

“Well, it’s obvious that she isn’t a sociopath…that the sarcastic remarks and the dead stare is just a ruse for some sort of pain she’s feeling underneath. What if she’s depressed? I mean, this case would really hit home for her, and to encounter these women who aren’t fighting back…she needed to know that there was something causing them not to fight back.”

“You think Y/N’s having suicidal thoughts?” J.J. asks incredulously.

“No, no. Not at all,” Spencer says, his heart fluttering at the mention of your name, “but I think that she sees these women, and she puts herself in their place, and she wants to believe that…if in the same situation…she would fight for her life-”

“-and to encounter a bunch of women battling depression who didn’t, it casts a bad light onto her and how she sees herself,” Rossi finishes.

“Poor Tossy...” Dale murmurs, shaking his head as he swallows hard.

“And wherever that damn nickname comes from,” Spencer says, his tone biting as his gaze bores deep into his face, “stop calling her it. It’s a trigger…and it stops now.”

“Yes, sir,” Dale mumbles.

“So…if they aren’t fighting back, what about the wipe marks on their foreheads?” Derek asks.

“The wipe marks…” Spencer mumbles off, scooting through everyone and going back to the boards tacked with pictures of the women.

“The wipe marks…” he whispers, looking close as he furrows his brow.

“What if these are wipe marks where he brushes their hair back. Look at the dirt piled at their hairline,” Spencer says, circling the clumps of dirt, “dirt doesn’t pile up that way unless pushed. So, if he’s brushing their hair from their eyes, and killing women who aren’t fighting back…”

“What are these?” J.J. asks, pointing to circular clean spots in the dirt on a few of the girls necks.

And as Spencer’s eyes widen, he fumbles with his cell phone and dials Hotch’s number.

“Hotch,” he answers.

“Hotch. Y/N was wrong,” Spencer says.

“Obviously,” he retorts

Swallowing his anger at his boss’s tone, he furrows is brow in confusion at his own emotions as be begins to ramble.

“Our unsub’s crying as he’s strangling these girls. He’s remorseful. These women that aren’t fighting back, he probably feels that he’s helping them…doing them a service to their quality of life. Don’t ask me how I know, just know I’m right,” he finishes.

“So he isn’t even remorseful,” Hotch says.

“He’s sad. He’s very, very, _very_ sad...possibly even battling something himself.”

“That would switch the parameters of the person we’re looking for,” Hotch says.

“I think I know who you’re talking about,” Mr. Lang pipes up, making himself known after sitting back and watching the entire conversation take place.

“What did he say?” Hotch says.

“The guy we picked up thinks he knows who we’re looking for,” Spencer says.

“Get us a name and address, and have Garcia run it to make sure this man fits the parameters,” Hotch says as he hangs up the phone.


	11. Profile 2.0

“Hotch-”

“Y/N, just listen,” he says, turning his gaze back to you as it softens from angry boss to distraught friend.

“The mask that you’ve worn...solid,” he says as he waves his hand in front of him, “but this case, Y/N...it’s crumbled you.”

Clenching your jaw, you swallow hard as you continue to stare at your boss.

“I knew your profile wasn’t quite right, which is why J.J., Rossi, and I were working this from a different angle while Morgan and Reid helped you with yours,” he says.

Blinking rapidly, you work to keep your breathing steady as your jaw clenches tighter.

“I need you to understand that we’re here for you, no matter what you’re fighting, and no matter what you’re feeling.”

“But...?” you ask.

“But...I won’t allow you to insult this team any longer. Not the way you’re used to doing now that we know your facade is just that.”

Nodding curtly in understanding, you feel a hand come down lightly on your shoulder.

“When you’re ready, any one of us are here to talk. Or to listen.”

And just as you were about to shed a tear, Hotch’s phone vibrates.

“Now, let’s get this son of a bitch,” Hotch says, his gaze beginning to harden again as you turn your back to him, striding for the car as you hear him answer his phone behind you.

“Hotch,” he says.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“There’s a man that frequents a bar that my wife and I go to from time to time,” Mr. Lang starts.

“What bar?” Dale asks.

“Bruisers.”

"Why do you think it’s our unsub?” Morgan asks, his arms crossing his chest as he furrows his brow.

“He comes in all the time with red-rimmed eyes, talking about his sister and how she didn’t mean to ‘do it’,” he air quotes. “Name’s Brett Schuler.”

“Wha-t...what happened to his sister?” J.J. stutters, swallowing deep.

“She was in an institution to help with her depression. She uh...admitted to suicidal thoughts, I think. At least, that’s what was said around town. Two days after she got out, she uh...she hung herself in their family’s garage.”

“Sounds like our guy,” Morgan mutters, casting his eyes over to Reid as he watches his lips pull into a thin, straight line.

“What’s going through your head, kid?”

“What he’s doing,” Spencer murmurs.

“What do you mean?” Rossi asks.

“Got an address for Brett,” Dale pipes up.

“Well, it’s been two days. No new body. What’s he doing? Does he know we’re on to him?”

“Mr. Lang,” Morgan asks, turning to the man they had brought in earlier, “does Brett have any hobbies?”

“Hobbies? Hell no. His life is his fishing business,” Lang states.

“So he has a boat somewhere,” J.J. says, turning to Reid as she watches his wheels begin to turn.

“Mr. Lang, do you know where this boat is?” Reid asks.

“Uh...yeah. Yeah, it’s at uh...Copper Harbor. ‘Bout 30 minutes that way,” he says, thumbing over his shoulder nonchalantly.

“I think know what he’s been doing,” Spencer says, fumbling with his phone as he calls Aaron.

“Hotch.”

“Hotch! Get to Copper Harbor. I know what the unsub’s been doing since we found the last body,” Reid rambles as he leaves with the rest of the team out the doors of the police station.

“Are we working with any proof?” Hotch asks, casting his glance over to you in the passenger seat as you continue to stare out the window, your forehead leaning against the glass.

“No. Just a strong hunch,” Reid says, looking towards Derek before opening his car door and getting in.

“It’s better than what we’ve got now,” Hotch says, “I’ll see you at the harbor. With the lack of physical evidence, we’re gonna need a straight confession anyway.”

“The harbor?” you ask, not bothering to pan your gaze over to your boss as he climbs into the car beside you.

“Reid seems to believe he’s running.”

“If he’s remorseful, shouldn’t he not care about running? Isn’t he working off of some sort of twisted hero complex?” you drone.

“Just because someone believes they are trying to help doesn’t mean they aren’t afraid of the consequences should they be found helping where help isn’t wanted,” Hotch says, eyeing you carefully as you clench your jaw.

What a lovely way to tell you that you needed to let them help.

Hell would have to freeze over.

And as you catch your boss’s gaze in the reflection of your passenger-side window, you hold his gaze for quite some time before he redirects his attention back to the road, the GPS coming to life on the dashboard as it begins to talk out loud.

“You will arrive at your destination in 57 minutes.”


	12. The Talk

Hopping out of the car before Hotch brings it to a stop, you see a boat out in the harbor as you bring your hand to your forehead, squinting to try and figure out how far out it actually is.

“Lemme guess,” you drone, turning to Morgan, “he’s on the boat.”

“Yep,” Morgan says, popping his “p.”

“And why isn’t anyone on a boat going after him?” you ask plainly.

“Because Hotch told us to stay here until you arrived.”

Turning your body back towards Hotch, everyone begins to hustle onto the boat as your boss begins calling out orders to everyone in his vicinity.

Everyone, including Dale.

“Come on, Tos-!...I mean...Y/L/N!” Dale calls out, waving his hand to try and get your attention.

You didn’t want to get on the boat.

The rocking, unsteady, nauseatingly familiar boat.

“Do we know where he’s headed?” you ask as you graze past Dale onto the floating structure.

“We think Silver Islet. It’s the closest harbor in Canada,” Dale says as he bends down, untying the boat from the dock as he prepares to cast off.

“He won’t have to make it to the harbor,” you mumble, walking towards the bow of the boat, “Canada owns part of Lake Superior. All he has to do is cross that border to make it a continental issue.”

“Great,” J.J. murmurs to herself.

“Anyway to contact the Canadian naval force? Or their equivalent of the National Guard?” you ask, your head staying forward as your eyes stay locked onto the boat in front of you.

“Hotch is trying now,” Spencer says, walking up beside you as he places something in your hand.

Slowly panning your gaze over, your eyes meet his for the first time since he left you with Hotch, his brow furrowed deep and his eyes diving into the depths of your soul.

You felt your heart skip a beat for a split second before you suck in a tight breath through your nose.

“What’s this?” you drone, looking down at the handle of a bullhorn that Spencer has placed lightly in the palm of your hand.

“We aren’t going to catch up to him before he hits that border, you and I both know that,” he says, turning his body completely towards you as you crane your neck back to keep your eyes locked onto his, “and if anyone has a chance of talking him down, it’s you.”

As silence permeates the conversation, you feel the speed of the boat increase, the water bellowing under the boat as the harbor sinks into the background. You felt lost...stranded...like a rocking boat without fuel, thrown to the mercy of the murky depths of the same waters you were currently navigating, chasing down an unsub that, up until this point, you hadn’t truly understood.

But you did now....and Spencer knew that you did.

Taking a deep breath, you feel a warm sensation on your bare forearm as your eyes flicker down.

You saw Spencer’s fingers wrapped around your skin.

He was so warm...

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

Unless you had been paying attention to the way his words rolled off of his lips, the sound of the water sloshing by as the boat cut through the waves would have drowned him out.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head lightly back and forth, “please don’t.”

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because,” you sigh, your eyes slowly raising to connect with his.

You were shocked to see that his eyes were glistening.

“Because your touch is distracting,” you admit.

Watching him audibly swallow, he lets go of your arm and brings his fingers up to his eyes, wiping away the tears that were threatening to spill forth as he turns his body and makes his way back to the rest of the team.

You felt the rest of your facade crumbling off and spilling to the ground, like an over-cooked dessert that a small child was spitting onto the floor. You knew that in order to stop this man, you would have to talk. And you knew that if you began to talk, it had to be the truth.

And you knew that if it had to be the truth, then your team would always regard you as different.

As weak.

As little.

As spoiled.

You knew they would see you the way your "friends” in college had.

They would see you as a “Tossy.”

So...with a knot in your gut and a tremble in your arm, you slowly bring the bullhorn to your lips as your team stands behind you, their bodies turning their full-force attention onto your every action as you depress the red button on the bullhorn before taking one more deep breath.

“Mr. Schuler!?” you holler into the horn as you root yourself to the ground, “my name is Y/F/N Y/L/N...with the FBI. And I just want you to know something. I just want you to know that I understand.”


	13. Tossy

Pause.

Your pause wasn’t so much to see if he would respond, but to judge and see if he had stopped his boat.

But by the looks of things he was still going, and as you looked behind you, the worried and concerned faces of your team members locking onto your every move, your eyes pan up to the captain’s nest as you click on your bullhorn and begin speaking.

“Go as fast as you can. I don’t know if he can hear us.”

Feeling the boat lurch, you lazily watch the boat in front of you enlarge, secretly hoping that he would cross into Canadian territory so that you wouldn’t have to do this.

So that you wouldn’t have to talk.

Because if there was one thing you held above your personally-invoked cage... one thing you were willing to peek your toe out for from the dark corner you would coward close to…it was the victims of this man’s crimes.

And finally, after three minutes of the salt water air breezing your hair back, your over-sized sweater fluttering in the wind as you grasp the red button once again on the bullhorn, you raise it to your lips as you repeat your line again.

“Mr. Schuler! My name is Y/F/N Y/L/N, and I’m with the FBI.”

You saw the panic rising in his face.

“I just want to talk with you.”

“No, you don’t!” he yells.

“Yes, I do. And I can promise you that as long as you stop moving and listen, no one will board, and you won’t be handcuffed.”

“What?” Rossi murmurs, his eyes darting to up Hotch as his shoulders tense.

“Just trust her,” Spencer shushes behind him.

“R-…really?” the man squeaks.

“Yes. But you have to stop moving,” you say into your bullhorn.

“Then you stop moving, too.”

Waving your hand to the captain, you listen to the boat slowly power down, the engine shutting off as the roaring of the water underneath the boat silences itself, the waves beginning to buck up against it as the massive hunk of metal bobs and weaves in the open water.

It was a sensation you were very familiar with.

“Do you feel that?” you ask.

“Feel what?” Brett responds.

“The bobbing and weaving. It’s a familiar sensation, isn’t it?”

It pained you to watch the man struggle with his own words…because you knew how that felt.

“H-…how…how do you know it’s familiar?” he asks.

“Because it’s familiar to me, too,” you admit.

“It is?” he shouts.

“Yes,” you state, keeping the bullhorn to your lips.

“So…so you’re depressed, too?” he asks.

Slowly lowering your bullhorn as you turn your head back to eye your team, your eyes connect full-force with Spencer’s as you sigh heavily.

“I’m so sorry,” you lightly mouth to him.

Turning your head back to Brett, you bring the horn back to your lips as you click the button.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am. For…for as long as I can remember,” you snicker, feeling tears prickle the back of your eyes.

“What’s…what’s your reason?” Brett asks, now standing at the stern of his ship, his body sitting down and his legs dangle over the edge.

“That’s the thing,” you choke out, feeling a tear trickle down your cheek, “I uh…don’t really have a reason.”

“Like Abby,” he says.

Abby.

Abby Whitaker.

Your latest victim.

The one with no hand placement and alcohol on her breath.

“Yes. Like Abby,” you lull.

“So you…you had a good life?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say, taking in a deep breath, “yes, I had a good life. And I still do.”

Pause.

A long, pregnant, deadly pause.

“It’s funny,” you lull.

“What’s funny?” Brett asks.

You feel the engine of the boat slowly roar back to life.

“Don’t you dare!” you turn your head, pointing your finger at Hotch who you knew had signaled the captain as you begin to pant, “Don’t you dare,” you snarl.

“What…what’s going on!?” Brett yells.

“Nothing. Just someone doing something dumb,” you say, causing your boss’s jaw to grow taut as the team’s eyes grow wide and slowly turn their heads to their boss.

“But it’s funny,” you continue, “how…how normal my life is. Two parents, never divorced. Beautiful story as to how they met and fell in love. Had my brother and then me. We celebrated holidays, wore beautiful outfits for Easter Sundays. We both made good grades in school, and were never lacking in friends. The worst memory I have of my childhood is…is my father telling me he was disappointed in me the first time I decided to sneak out of my house when I was 15.”

“He was mad, huh?” Brett snickers, a light smile playing on his cheeks as his legs swing up against his boat.

“Oh, yeah. And I never did it again. I never wanted to hurt my daddy.”

Now the tears were pouring down your face.

“They gave me everything, you know? Clothes. Food. Friends. Parties. Love…and yet…here I am,” you say, flopping your free arm at your side.

“It’s like my sadness is a direct spit in their face, y-…you know?” you breathe, your voice getting caught in your throat.

“Yeah…yeah, I know,” Brett says.

“And I…I know you were just trying to help them, Brett. I know that, deep down, you knew the struggle that they wrestled with, day in and day out, no matter what kind of medication they took. God...,” you breathe, shaking your head as your brain floods the back of your eyelids with memories, “...you know, the medicine…it…it just…dulls it. You know, they...they say it’s supposed to make you happy, but really it only dulls your ability to feel sadness.”

“It’s a big difference,” Brett says as you feel the boat begin to naturally drift towards his.

“It is,” you say back.

“But I thought I did a good job of covering it up. You know, I learned how to genuinely fake a smile, you know…crinkle my own eyes and everything. That is until I got to college and began getting a higher education.”

The team began to slowly flicker their eyes back and forth between your crooked body and Dale, who was now pressing his shoulder deep into the side of the Captain’s nest, trying desperately to shield himself.

“What happened?” Brett asks.

At this point you were so close to him that you didn’t need the bullhorn.

Setting it down, you climb to the bow of the boat and sit on the edge, letting your legs dangle as Morgan reaches out for Spencer’s arm, his body lurching forward towards yours as Morgan stops him in his tracks.

“Let her do this,” Morgan says lowly as tears begin to form in Spencer’s eyes.

The rest of the team was rooted in shock.

“I uh…I took a literature class to break up the monotony of my Psychology courses,” you start, “and there was this book I latched on to…Lolita, by Vladimir Nabokov. You ever read it?” you ask him.

Watching him shake his head no, you continue.

“We were uh...doing some background research into him. Well, I was, for a paper I was writing…and uh, I came across this quote of his. It’s a definition of the word toska.”

“What’s toska?” Brett asks.

At this point, Spencer’s face begins to flush red as the fire behind his eyes ignites, his head turning slowly to Dale as his hands begin to clench into fists.

“You didn’t,” he growls.

“Reid, what is it?” J.J. asks, stepping forward and putting her hand on his arm.

“I swear I wasn’t the one who gave her that nickname,” Dale pleads, his voice breathless as Spencer takes a step towards him, tears threatening to spill down Dale’s now-reddened cheeks.

“There’s no English equivalent, but the word is Russian,” you start,”I practically memorized the definition,” you chuckle breathlessly.

“What...what does it mean?” Brett stammers.

“Nabokov defines it as: ‘at its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any cause. At less morbid levels, it’s a dull ache of the soul…a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, or possibly even yearning without a particular focus. In some cases, it may be the desire for somebody or something specific, nostalgia, or love-sickness.’”

“You son-of-a-bitch,” Rossi growls, turning his attention to Dale as he rounds his body to stand firm beside Spencer.

“I memorized that quote,” you breathe, your chest beginning to heave lightly. “It uh…it really rang true with me, for obvious reasons,” you snicker, your toes now able to stretch out and touch the side of Brett’s boat, “and I suppose my classmates thought it was fitting for me as well.”

“Why do you uh…say that?” Brett asks, his head now raising to look at your red-rimmed, puffy, glistening eyes.

“Because that’s when they started calling me ‘Tossy’,” you say, barely above a whisper.

After a long, silent pause between the two of you, oblivious to the stand-off occurring several feet behind you, you swallow deep as Brett sighs heavily.

“What happens now?” he asks.

“I have to take you in, Brett,” you say, shaking your head, your brows furrowing in a pleading sorrow that even you didn’t realize you were capable of possessing.

“They were miserable,” he says, his face crinkling up as tears begin to roll over his cheeks.

“She was miserable,” he whispers, his chest heaving as you reach your arm out straight, enveloping his hand within yours as he clamps down hard, bringing your palm to his face and nuzzling his cheek deep into the warmth of your skin.

“I know,” you whisper, nodding your head as you sob along with him, “I know.”

And as your other arms reaches for him, your strength dragging his limp, shaking form onto the boat as a team of police begin to board his, your arms envelope his body as you pull Brett close, his hands wrapping themselves in the fabric of your sweater as he cries and snots into your shoulder.

“You have the right to remain silent,” you begin whispering into his ear, calmly stroking his hair as Spencer comes up behind the two of you to cuff him to the boat.


	14. Erosion

The rest of the case was a blur. You remember bits and pieces: sitting with him while he writes and signs his confession. Standing idly by as he gets processed and booked. The vague plea from him for you to be there by his side. The dripping fear in his eyes.

But after that you went back to the hotel.

When your memory fully comes to, you are sitting in a chair, your feet propped up on the large window-sill of your hotel room, the curtains parted as you stare out into the night with a large glass of orange juice half-empty by your side on a table you do not remember moving to your side..

Apparently Hotch had excused you from the rest of the wrap-up...and apparently you had insisted on hailing a cab instead of riding in an SUV...and apparently you turned down any and all company that was offered.

As well as food.

And water.

 _And_ advice.

 **And** listening ears.

Staring out of the hotel window as the darkness shrouds the ground below, you find your eyes focusing on your faded reflection: the puffy under-eyes, the makeup-less face, the empty stare, the modest rising and falling of your chest, the ratty clothes you had managed to pack in your bag despite being oddly meticulous about the clothes you wore around your colleagues.

You were slipping.

You felt yourself slipping...

Refocusing your gaze out the window, you hear a click at your door before it slowly slides open...just before the sudden jarring of the chain across the opening of the door catches the perpetrator who dare disturb you during your needed time to sink into oblivion and be invisible.

“Y/N?”

_Spencer._

Staring out at the trees, your legs mindlessly curling into you as you situate them in your chair, you hear him call out again as the smell of warm, cheesy pizza starts wafting into the room.

“I have food,” he beckons.

You found yourself wishing he had alcohol instead.

“This is the best I could do, seeing as we can’t drink while on the job,” he says lowly.

“Fucking know-it-all,” you murmur to yourself.

“Please let me in,” he pleads.

But you couldn’t move.

You didn’t want to move.

You knew that if you moved, it would hurt. And you knew that if it hurt, you would feel. And you knew that if you felt, you would cry.

And you had shown enough weakness for one day.

Hearing the door close lightly behind you, you lay the side of your head against the wing of the chair, your frail, tired body curling up into the cushioning of the structure before you hear the door open again, your eyes fluttering closed as your stomach begins to growl.

Pain.

Pain reminded you that you were alive.

That your heart was ticking.

That your brain was working.

That your-

“You need to eat,” Spencer says, placing his hand on your shoulder as you rip yourself from the chair, standing to your feet quickly as your wild eyes look sharply at the tall man standing just behind your chair, your hotel room door closed and locked, both in chain and in doorknob.

“How did you-?” you breathe, your body leaning slightly to the right as the door comes into view again.

“Magic,” Spencer says, the corners of his mouth ticking up as he realizes that he was able to finally impress you.

If only for a second.

“You’ll have to show me that trick,” you murmur, your eyes slowly panning back to his.

“Not until you eat,” he says, stepping to the side as his hand ushers to the piping hot pizza sitting on your bed.

“I’m not hungry,” you murmur just before your stomach growls loudly.

“Uh huh,” Spencer says, eyeing you playfully as his eyes begin to twinkle.

What the hell was he so happy about?

Feeling your eyes flutter closed, your legs begin to shake as Spencer shoots beside you, his arms darting out to catch you as he picks you up in his arms and carries you over to the bed.

You feel the coolness of the blanket his the back of your legs, and you sigh in relief as you feel your head lean on his shoulder for support, his hand reaching out to pull the pizza over so he could flip the lid open and raise a square-cut pizza slice to your mouth.

“Just one bite,” he says, barely above a whisper as the cheesy pizza corner sits taunting you at your lips.

Dropping your jaw as you take a bite, you begin to chew slowly as he takes a bite out of the opposite corner, his cheek laying down slowly on top of your head as you close your eyes.

It hurt.

It hurt without the alcohol.

And as you swallow hard, your breath coming in shaky bursts as the tears begin to fall onto Spencer’s suit-coat, he drops the pizza slice into the box and wipes his hands off on his pants, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his lap.

You felt empty.

Cavernous.

Exposed...

...like a raw nerve at the bottom of a deeply rifted flesh wound.

And the worst part was you felt guilty.

For you had no rhyme.

And no reason...

...and absolutely no starting point.

And you sobbed for the disappointment you had turned out to be.


	15. Giving Up

“Is she alright?” Garcia asks, shuffling quickly up the tarmac as the team greets her with light hugs and solemn glances.

Derek had summed up your shpeal to her as you all were traveling home.

“I don’t know, baby girl,” Morgan says, his eyes panning over to the SUV you were sitting in.

You always took the Metro in DC to get to work, and Spencer insisted that if you didn’t let someone from the team take you home, that someone in one of the SUV’s were going to drive you there.

And you didn’t have the energy to fight.

“Should someone go with her?” J.J. asks as she walks up, the team watching the black car slowly pull out of the little airport as you sit in the back with your forehead plastered against the window.

“I tried,” Spencer lulls.

“So did I,” Rossi muses lowly.

“I even offered for her to come stay with me and Jack,” Hotch admits.

“Maybe she just...needs time?” Garcia spoke, trying to breathe hope into an otherwise hopeless situation.

“And that’s just what I’m giving her,” Hotch says as he turns and starts for his car, his work badge in hand.

“You headed back to the office?” Morgan asks incredulously.

“Just long enough to fill out some leave paperwork for Y/N,” he shouts back.

“That sounds like a good idea,” Spencer muses as he stares off into the distance, his eyes locked onto your car as he watches your SUV round the corner and out onto the open road.

“Should someone take some time with her...?” J.J. trails off, her worried stare slowly turning around to Spencer.

“I don’t know...” he trails off.

“Maybe we could give her a few days. See if she’ll reach out to someone,” Morgan suggests.

“And whoever she reaches out to could take some time off?” Garcia questions.

“Or at least stay behind at HQ for cases in case she needs them again,” Rossi adds.

But their voices were fading into the background, for Spencer’s mind couldn’t stop whirling...

Couldn’t stop worrying...

Couldn’t stop feeling as if he had made a wrong decision to stay behind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dropping your bag off to the side and letting your door slowly click shut, your body meanders over to the globe in the corner by the fireplace, your hand reaching out and twirling it open as you grab the Scotch and a crystal glass.

You didn’t even care about the ice...

You just wanted to feel the burn before the numb.

You didn’t consider yourself an alcoholic. There were never any blackout moments, and when you were out in public you stuck to nursing one glass of wine.

No, no. The alcohol wasn’t about getting drunk.

The alcohol wasn’t for the euphoric out-of-body experience.

The alcohol wasn’t even for the numbness...though it very much helped.

The alcohol was for the memories...the smell of it before the burning liquid hit your tongue. The memories of moments where you would climb into your father’s lap when you were a little girl and sniff deep. The times where he would nurse a Scotch in his own glass after a long day at work, and you would sit at his leg, reading a book, breathing deep the scent of his cologne and Scotch as you slowly fell asleep on his calf.

It was those moments, those...those life-altering memories...fraught with smells and odors that you committed to memory, that made you smile. With every sip that passed over your tongue, the scent of your father’s brand hitting your nostrils as they flare with every drag, you would close your eyes and conjure his face: his kind Y/C/E eyes he had handed down to you, his hearty laugh that he gave you (though you rarely ever used), his strong legs that supported your frame as you drifted off to sleep while reading your favorite book.

You missed your father so much.

Chugging the rest of the drink as your face grimaces at the strength, you settle back into the cushions of the couch, still smelling of your mother’s perfume, as you close your eyes and allow the alcohol to relax your mind...

Relax your memories...

Relax your emotions...

And for the first time since you had buried your parents, you wept for them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Spencer couldn’t shake the feeling that you shouldn’t be alone. He tried reading through some books. He tried taking a long hot shower. He tried settling his growling stomach with food. He even tried putting in a Doctor Who DVD, turning it to his favorite episode.

But he just couldn’t shake your blank stare from his mind.

Finally conceding to his paranoia, he slings his house-robe around his shoulders and grabs his keys, his long legs rushing him to his light blue classic Volvo as he dips down behind the wheel of the car and cranks it up.

Slowly making his way to your home, he pulls into the driveway as his lights shine into your front window, illuminating your kitchen as he cuts his car off.

“I’m sure she’s alright,” he says to himself, his shaking hands stumbling with the car door as he scrambles out, almost careening to the concrete as he tries to get his feet under him.

“I’m sure she’s just fine,” he breathes, walking up the front door as he goes to knock quietly.

But something inside prompts him to try the doorknob first.

And when the door opens freely, he instinctively reaches for his gun, cursing himself after realizing it’s not on his hip.

“Y/N?” he calls into the home as you lob your red face in his general direction, sighing heavily while his eyes settle upon you.

“Oh, Y/N,” he says, shutting the door behind him as he scurries to your side.

Sniffling as your gaze slowly pans back in front of you, your watery eyes staring directly in front of you, Spencer takes in your empty liquor glass and the open globe, boasting of it’s fine amber liquids as he sits down beside you, the reality of you finding Abby Whitaker’s body finally making sense as he reaches out for your hand.

He felt the need to say something. He wanted _so desperately_ to say something.

He just didn’t know what.

So instead, he tugs at your arm, shocked that your body comes freely and easily to him, your torso flopping into the crook of his arm as your head lays onto his chest, his body sinks back into the couch cushions with you both. Soon, your tears start up again, your chest heaving voraciously as your salty rivers begin to soak his white undershirt, your hands fisting his house-robe as you pull his as close as his body will physically meld.

And then, as he begins to run his fingers lightly through your hair, he finally finds the right words to say.

“You’re not Abby,” he whispers.


	16. Jousting

“How is she?” Hotch asks.

“I mean...she’s Y/N. She seems to be less guarded, but she’s still her,” Reid says.

“I’ll take that as a good thing for now,” Hotch replies.

“How long do you think she’ll stay out of work?” Spencer asks, the phone hanging from his shoulder as he stirs the pot on the stove, reaching for the salt shaker.

“As long as it’s necessary. I gave you two weeks off. Anything after that, if you want to still be with her, will keep you back at HQ with Garcia.”

“Understood.”

“Send her our love,” Morgan says, raising his voice over Hotch’s shoulder as he walks into the bullpen.

“Will do, Morgan,” Spencer snickers, a light smile gracing his face as he reaches for the pepper this time.

“Is that Reid?” Rossi asks, rounding the corner.

As Hotch nods his head, Rossi comes up to Hotch’s side, his head near the speaker of his cell, “Follow the recipe _exactly_.”

“Got it, Rossi,” Spencer chuckles.

“And give her my love,” Rossi yells as Hotch furrows his brow and backs away.

“Will do.”

Cutting the phone call as Spencer sets the spoon down on the counter, he reaches for the mitts as he opens up the oven.

The wafting scent of garlic brought you from your unconscious state in the living room as your eyes flutter open.

Sighing as you stretch your legs, your arms following suit as you let out a strained yelp, you plant your feet on the floor as you wrap the blanket around your shoulders, your legs bumbling you into the kitchen as your eyes attempt to adjust to the brightness of the house.

You rarely ever turned on the lights.

“Hey there!” Spencer says, looking up at you as he sets the freshly made garlic bread on the counter, “Rossi sent me a recipe for homemade garlic bread, so I decided on spaghetti for dinner.”

But all you did was stare at him blankly.

“It’s really bright in here,” you croak.

“That’s what happens when you turn on lights,” Spencer says, kneeing the oven door closed as he pulls a noodle out of the boiling pot, tossing it at the wall to see if it sticks.

“Perfect,” he says, the noodle hanging out on the wall as he cuts the stove-top off, removing the pot of noodles over to the sink.

“You gonna take that off the wall?” you ask, cocking your eyebrows on your head as you watch the steam pour over Spencer’s head, his face turning away so as to not get burnt.

“Figured it would be a nice addition to your... _eclectically_ decorated kitchen,” he jousts.

Spencer, in the four days he had already spent with you, had done what most people decided wasn’t worth their energy. Instead of attempting to change you...molding you into a nicer person...he had engaged you with his wits, throwing sarcastic remarks just as often as you tossed them at him.

And it was with that verbal jousting that you felt your dark, icy heart begin to drip.

“What if I’m not hungry?” you ask, plopping yourself down in front of a glass full of juice as you grasp it within your hand and bring it to your lips.

“Tough,” he says, turning his gaze to you and winking at you as he gives the pot of meat sauce one last stir.

All you could do was shake your head and snicker.

Watching as he places everything on the table, you furrow your brow as you take in the sheer amount of food in front of you.

“The rest of the team joining us, Reid?” you ask sarcastically.

“You making fun of my eating habits?” he asks, causing your eyes to widen before you hear his giggle.

His lullaby of a giggle.

“Figured reheating left-overs would be easier for the next few days,” he says, sitting down beside you with his own glass of juice.

“I’m not incapacitated,” you say, grabbing the tongs for the noodles and tossing some onto your plate.

“Not physically, no,” Spencer says, grabbing a piece of garlic bread.

“I’m completely capable of taking care of myself,” you murmur.

“I never said you weren’t,” Spencer responds.

“There is nothing wrong with me,” you bite, slapping some sauce over your noodles, splattering some on the shirt you have lived in for the past few days.

“Says the girl who hasn’t showered, changed, or gone a night without crying herself to sleep the past three nights.”

Clenching your jaw as you take in a deep, soothing breath through your nose, you pan your gaze over to your colleague as Spencer hovers the bread bowl in front of you.

“Want a piece?” he asks.

Flashing your fiery gaze up to his completely calm expression, you grab a piece and put it in your mouth, ripping a bite off as Spencer sets it down coolly beside you.

“In case you want more,” he says.

After a while of eating in silence...and going in for your second helping...you draw in a deep breath as you swallow the gigantic bite of noodle you had taken from your fork.

“Why are you still here?” you ask.

As the silence hangs heavy in the balance, the tension thickens with every round the question swirls within your mind, like the churning of butter in a barrel.

“Reid?” you ask, the anxiousness growing in your voice.

As your eyes search the side of his face, his mouth chewing evenly as he takes a sip of his drink, he slowly turns his eyes to you, his stare shivering you to your core as your fingers begin to dance along the hem of your shirt nervously.

“Because I care, Y/N,” he says plainly.

It was a hard concept for you to grasp. For years you had tried, and failed, to reconcile your depression. You had tried, and failed, to fix it on your own...to find happiness in the sunny summer days as you watched kids run through the streets, picking flowers and running through sprinklers.

For years you had tried...and failed...to find a place where you could exist peacefully. A place where your niche was fulfilled and you could feel an emotion that everyone said existed, despite it’s absence in your life.

For years, you had even tried to cover it up, faking the joy until it finally descended upon you so as to make others around you more comfortable.

But as the years passed on, and the nickname in college ingrained itself into your memory, and the scars from the hurt of a friend that would never visit grew strong callouses, forever entombing your scars for everyone to see should they get close enough to behold, you found yourself throwing up barriers. Walls and metal gates and digging moats and freezing it in ice, knowing that if you could keep everyone as far away as possible that it would save them from a truth that even _you_ weren’t willing to accept.

And as all of this rattled through your mind, you hadn’t realized you had been staring.

“Y/N?” Spencer says, his hands jostling your knees as you come to, his tall form kneeling in front of you as his large, puppy dog eyes search your face frantically.

“There you are,” he muses, his hand coming up to cup your face as a tear nonchalantly makes its way down your cheek, running over his thumb in the process.

“Where did you go?”’ he asks quietly.

And as you draw in a ragged breath, your hands trembling ever so lightly as your lip begins to quiver, you swallow hard as you close your eyes, taking in a very large breath through your mouth.

“That story requires something a bit stronger than juice,” you muse, grasping your glass beside you and bringing it to your lips for a very long, loud, strenuous pull.


	17. Breakdown

By the end of the first week, you were beginning to get restless. You started leaving the house early in the mornings, wrapping your long fabric coat around you before you left for an early mornings walk, your tumbler full of hot coffee in your hand as you meandered to the slow tune of the sunrise.

You couldn’t figure out why you were so distraught. Why that last case had rattled you to your core.

Sure, the women he was murdering were like you. And sure, they had their vices. And sure, even one of them didn’t have an inception point for her depression. And sure, he was depressed himself because he couldn’t cope with the loss of a family member.

You knew what that was like. No being able to cope with things...feeling like your mind was drowning in a substance you couldn’t identify.

Ok...maybe that was the reason the case had rattled you to your core.

But you had come to a realization you hadn’t noticed before.

You weren’t rattled because you had to open up.

The entire team knew your issue now. They knew you were depressed. They knew you had no reason to be. They knew your anger and your mean remarks and your lack of participation in any event outside of work was just a mask to conceal your confusion and your disappointment in yourself.

So why were you having such a tough time getting back to work?

Work was what distracted you. It was what gave you purpose. It was what kept your alcohol consumption from galloping off with your stomach. It was what grounded you in a reality you wanted nothing to do with.

It’s what kept you from your own thoughts of darkness.

So why were you struggling with the idea of going back?

Drudging back up the steps, your legs heaving your tired body into the house, you are hit with the smell of pancakes as you stand in your darkened foyer, your eyes fluttering closed as you take another long pull of the scent through your flaring nostrils.

Your mother used to make pancakes every Saturday morning.

“Wake up, Y/N! Time for breakfast!”

“But mooooom...ugh...”

“Come on, I made your favorite,” she yells up the stairs, causing your nose to peek out from under the blanket.

You could remember distinctly how the smell of raspberries would tickle your nose, the tanginess of their flavor causing your saliva glands to kick into overdrive as you pictured the pure maple syrup slowly dolloping over your pancakes.

“Y/N?”

Shaking yourself from your memory, you see a concerned Spencer standing in front of you, his hands flying to your shoulders as he wipes at the tear trails racing down your neck as you feel your chest heave thunderously.

“What happened? Are you hurt?” he asks breathlessly, checking your body as you slowly nod your head.

“Yes, Spen-...-cer,” you heave in between jagged breaths, “I...I always h-hurt...”

As he whips his gaze back up to you, your eyes pouring their sorrows and questions at his face, you feel your legs slip out from under you as his arms dart out, catching you before you hit the foyer floor.

“It always h-hurts...and it...it always aches...and...and it...and they...it shouldn’t of...”

“Sssshhhh...” Spencer coos, running his hand over your head as he bites down on his lower lip, willing himself to stay strong for you.

It was happening.

The breakdown that he talked about with Hotch and Rossi every night.

The breakdown that they said would unravel you from your core. The breakdown that would occur when your body could no longer physically endure the walls you kept raising up. The breakdown that would cause your body to cave in on itself.

They had tried to brace him for the intensity.

They had tried to talk him through the sheer flood of emotion that would waft through the house.

But nothing...nothing...could have prepared him for this moment.

It was like a Lamaze instructor attempting to coach you through labor, only to hit the real thing and have your breath sucked away.

As your sobs turn into screams, the tears soaking through the front of his white shirt and plastering it to his chest, you fist the sides of the thin fabric as you curl your fingers tight, your muffled screams vibrating his rib cage as he grasps tightly onto your fabric coat.

He knew what was coming next, and he wasn’t sure if he was physically capable of doing what he needed to.  
As reality kicks in and your eyes begin to widen, you force your hands in between your bodies as you try to push him away.

But he wouldn’t budge.

Feeling him wrap his arms tighter around you, you thrust harder, throwing your body weight into the living room as he comes with you, his grip tightening on the fabric on your back as you try to twist out of his grip.

But all he did was wrap his arms around you from behind.

“Let...go!” you roar, tears still pouring down your skin as your chest turns a darker shade of tomato red.

“No,” he whispers into your ear, your backside bucking into his pelvis as your elbows try to shoot back into his rib-cage.

“Spencer!” you yelp, feeling your body tire out as you try to take a step forward, your foot losing its traction on the floor as you begin to plummet to the carpet.

But all Spencer does is tighten his grip and hold you in mid-air.

“Ssshhh...” he coos.

“Shut...UP!” you shriek, throwing your head back with every intention of breaking his nose, the panic rising in your throat.

But all he does is move his head, your forehead becoming trapped in between his collarbone and his cheek as he holds your head steady.

You tried to get your feet back under you, all the while his trembling arms are trying desperately to keep you next to him.

His body felt so warm...

“Spen-...Spenc-uh,” you feel yourself heave.

That wasn’t panic in your throat.

That was coffee.

Throwing your head off to the side, you double over and spew your coffee all over the carpet, your body growing limp in his long, strong arms as he smooths your hair back, gathering it in his hand as he slowly lowers you to your hands and knees.

“It’s ok...let it out,” he murmurs soundly in your ear, his voice the only thing grounding you into reality as you continue to painfully heave.

You wanted to retreat. To act like this wasn’t happening. To throw up your walls and push him back to arms length. To reverse the clock to 20 minutes ago.

But you felt so weak...and you were so very tired...

As one last heave projects the rest of the caffeine-laced liquid from your stomach, you feel yourself swaying as Spencer tips you off to the side, his arms splaying behind your legs and back as he lifts you up, grunting as he begins walking you back into your bedroom.

The entire ordeal couldn’t have been more than a half an hour.

And compared to the lifetime you had spent in turmoil, troubled and intimidated by your own mind, and your own thoughts, and your own self-made perceptions of how others saw you...it was a drop in a bucket.

Feeling the cool sheets hit your cheek, you feel your eyes drooping, tears still falling from them as you draw in an incredibly shaky breath, your chest jumping so violently you were sure your tit would come dropping out of your shirt.

Sighing as you close your eyes, you feel the bed in front of you sink down, a cool washcloth being pressed up against your lips as Spencer begins to wipe your lips, dragging it over to your cheeks, before slowly prodding you to open your mouth.

“Just let me get the rest,” he says, barely above a whisper, his voice pregnant with worry and relief.

Parting your lips as you feel the cool cloth run around your teeth, he wipes your tongue and the roof of your mouth before withdrawing, your jaw falling closed as you draw another breath that jumps your body.

“When does it stop?” you croak, your eyes fluttering closed as you feel Spencer’s breath against your face.

“When does what stop?” he asks, tucking a rogue strand of hair behind your ear.

“The pain...does it...does it ever...stop...?” you heave, your body struggling to regulate its breathing as your voice gets lost in its raspiness.

A tear finally escapes down Spencer’s reddened cheek as he brings his palm over to cup your heated face.

“I don’t...I don’t know,” he admits.

Because he didn’t.

He didn’t know if your pain would ever go away.

He didn’t know if medication would ever help.

He didn’t know if you would ever feel normal again.

All he _did_ know was that he wanted to help.

All he _did_ know was that he wanted to stay.

“Looks like I did the impossible,” you murmur, a very brief grin twitching your cheek as a grin crosses Spencer’s face.

“And what’s that?” he muses, stroking your cheek with his thumb as your swollen eyes stay permanently shut.

“I stumped the genius...” you murmur, your breathing finally steadying out as Spencer curls his lips into his mouth, his brow furrowing deep as he begins to plot out a course of action.

He needed to get him hands on some reading material.

Laying there, watching you sleep, he leans forward and plants his warm lips onto your forehead, kissing you softly and tenderly before getting up from the bed and making his way to the kitchen.

But just as he goes to close your door, he hears you mumble something, causing him to stop in his tracks and listen with intent.

“Daddy...” you murmur, your body shifting in bed as it coils up tight.

And a light-bulb went off in his head.

If it was your father you wanted, it was your father you were going to get.


	18. Instinct

“What do you mean, ‘their dead’?” Spencer asks breathlessly as his eyes dart along the wall of the kitchen.

“I _mean_ ,” Garcia starts, “that Y/N’s mom died a few years go, but she buried her father only _4 months_ ago.”

Spencer had decided to call Garcia and help track down your father. While he didn’t personally understand the bond between a daughter and a father, he knew that...no matter what the influence was...the bond could be powerful, especially in times of grave need.

“Her...her father’s...dead?” he asks.

“You not listening to me?” Garcia quips, furrowing her brow on the other end of the line, “Yes. Both of her parents are dead.”

Spencer couldn’t stop staring a hole into the wall.

“Why wouldn’t she tell us?” Garcia asks, her voice clearly glossing over with emotion as a few more pieces begin to fall into the puzzle that was you.

It wasn’t until Spencer had hung up the call a few minutes later that he had realized he had been crying.

He had inadvertently figured out a massive part of your personally.

A part that you had kept deep in hiding, from him and the rest of the team.

A part of you that was a scared, broken little girl, who wanted nothing more than her daddy.

It wasn’t as if his death had been a trigger. It couldn’t have been. It had been all but verbally confirmed to him and the team that you had always dealt with depression, but when you deal with something all of your life, you come to rationalize it as a basic, ethereal necessity. Something that is a part of you, whether you understand why or not.

He was, however, beginning to realize that your father’s death was the trigger for your answer-seeking.

Your father’s death was the event that fueled a need deep down inside of you for answers...fuel that caused you to question things in your life that you had always accepted as basic, fundamental fact.

His heart broke for you.

Feeling his jaw begin to quiver as he places his phone down on your kitchen table, he backtracks down the hallway, his hand reaching out to inch your door open as he sniffs lightly.

You looked so peaceful while you were sleeping.

Slowly walking over to the bed, he sits down, your back facing him, as he kicks his shoes off and removes his socks.

At this point, he was just as lost for answers as you were.

Pulling the covers back, he pauses as he watches the steady rise and fall of your shoulders, your light snores from your open mouth causing him to grin to himself as he begins to slide his legs under the blanket of your bed.

Shrinking down into the bed, he tilts to his side as he props up his head in the palm of his hand, his eyes dancing along your back as his mind continues to slowly wrap itself around the enigma that you had so tightly wrapped yourself in. The facades and the sarcasm and the dead stares and the snarky remarks and the cold shoulders and the emotionless deductions...it was all an attempt to hide the fact of your existence...the truth that you had lived with all of your life, and had only just now come to accept.

The truth that your depression is a part of you, and that the world doesn’t care about it.

You had figured out, through the death of your parents and the reality of this case, that the world continued to turn despite your struggles and despite your differences. You had figured out that, deep down, you were scared of the constant battle raging inside. You were scared of the battle you felt you were always going to have to fight in order to see the sun between the clouds...the silver lining among the darkened sky...the happy glimmers on top of your tears.

He had begun to see a strength in you that, up until this point, he was sure no one else had seen.

He didn’t care that you hadn’t confided in the team about the death of your father.

He didn’t care about the breakdown of emotions that had led to this moment.

He even no longer cared about all of the nasty, sarcastic remarks that you had made to him in an attempt to continue to hold him at arms length...just far away enough to shield your wounds from him.

Because he was in love with you.

He couldn’t admit to himself that he knew when it happened. He doesn’t remember a distinct moment, or a flash of reality dawning on him.

But as he lays there in your bed, watching your shoulders rise and fall just before you begin to roll over, he notices your body shifting towards him as he reaches his arm out for you, inching you closer as he settles down beside you, your face slowly inching into his chest as your leg sneaks in between his.

Almost as if it were instinct.

And as he kisses your forehead, your chest sighing in relief as you continue to sleep nestled into his body, he lays his head down as your hair tickles his nose, making him giggle as your light snores begin to warm the base of his neck.

Spencer Reid was in love with you.

Almost as if it were instinct.


	19. Talk Time

Fluttering your eyes open as you arch your back, you begin to stretch your arms out just before your butt knocks up against something hard.

Turning over quickly, your eyes wide with shock, your breath hitches in your throat as your eyes take in a sleepy, disheveled, messy Spencer, his arm draped over to your side of the bed as if still holding onto you.

Your brow begins to furrow in confusion as your eyes rake up and down his clothed body.

Watching him shift as his hand clenches down on the bed-sheets, you listen to him groan as you prop yourself up in bed, your hair spilling in different directions as you watch his eyes flutter open.

“Y/N?” he croaks.

You were confused as to why the hair on the back of your neck was standing on end.

Moving his hand around before his fingers land upon your thigh, you watch him smile sleepily as he scoots closer to you, his eyes still closed as he lays his mop of hair in your lap, wrapping his arm around your legs.

“There you are...” he trails off, his chest heaving with a contented sigh as you hold your hands in the air.

What the hell was happening?

Sitting there as you try to run through the foggy events of yesterday, it becomes harder and harder to piece them together as you become more and more distracted with the man laying partially in your lap.

His long, strong arm wrapped around your legs, his pale skin contrasting your melanin-fueled cells, his mop of hair tickling the insides of your thighs, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your knees before slowly dying off as he slips back into a deep slumber.

His long legs curled up at the end of the bed.

...your bed...

His warm body curled up next to yours.

...your body...

His strong back rising and falling with his even breaths...

...his breaths...

You found yourself oddly entranced by the odd doctor’s body...the way he so easily melded himself to you, cradling you as if you were a broken piece of glass.

You were scared to move for fear of slicing him open.

So, you stayed put. You reached over to your bedside table, pulling your magnifying reading glasses from the drawer along with your latest novel, opening it up to your last-remembered page as you begin to read the lines, finding yourself immersed within the book as you continue to revel in the warmth the odd doctor’s body was providing for you.

It felt so natural to you that you didn’t even think to question how he had ended up in your bed in the first place.

Feeling the side of your mouth quirk up at a particularly saucy part of your book, you hear a light chuckle emanate from your lap as you move it, your eyes darting down as you connect yours with Spencer’s.

“Good book?” he croaks.

“Depends on your definition of ‘good’,” you state, turning your attention back to the book as you feel him shift in your lap, the back of his head resting on your thighs as he begins to stretch his legs.

“What time is it?” he asks.

“Don’t know,” you lull.

“You don’t have a clock?” he asks, furrowing his brow lightly as he brings his hand up to rub his eye.

“Threw it at the wall a while back...” you lull half-mindlessly.

You were met with a very cute chuckle.

“Remind me to get you another one,” Spencer says.

“You don’t owe me anything,” you say, dropping your gaze to your lap as you catch Spencer’s tongue darting out from between his lips.

“If anything,” you breathe, shaking yourself from the sight, “I owe you.”

“You owe me nothing, Y/N,” Spencer coos.

You felt the hair stand up on the back of your neck again.

The only issue was your neck was beginning to flush as well.

And Spencer had caught it.

“You feeling alright?” he asks, darting up in bed as his fingertips dart out to your neck.

“I’m fine,” you say, pulling yourself away as you hastily put your book down in your lap.

Now was not the time to be reading saucy romance novels.

“You just got a bit flushed,” he states, worry crossing his eyes as he begins to slowly take stock of the rest of your body.

You suddenly became painfully aware of your current lack of underwear.

“Y/N...?” Spencer says, your attention coming back to the forefront as Spencer’s face appears in your vision, his face so close that his breath was tickling the tip of your nose.

“Y/N, you’re scaring me. You’re not talking, your hands are trembling, and your neck and face are flushed.”

You cursed your emotional breakdown.

Your emotional breakdown that had caused your defenses to crumble...the last of your stronghold on reality peeling away as you slowly begin to exhale the breath you had finally realized you were holding back.

You felt your heart flutter as your eyes flicker up to his, your pupils blown wide as Spencer meets your gaze, his posture faltering ever-so-lightly as the Master of Deduction once again begins to allow the pieces to fall into their rightful place.

“Y/N...” Spencer whispers, his hand coming up to cup your cheeks as you finally ground yourself back into reality.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me...” you admit, your voice wavering lightly as tears begin to brew at the base of your eyes.

“What do you mean?” Spencer asks, barely above a whisper.

“One day I’m...alright. I’m withdrawn, stable...grounded...” you breathe, “...and then this case happens, and you say you won’t stop until you know what’s going on, and then you...you figure it out...”

Feeling a tear descend upon your cheek, you feel Spencer’s thumb dart out as he wipes it away, his lips puckering as he kisses the tip of your nose lightly, your eyes closing instinctively as another tear involuntarily slips out.

“...and then you still don’t stop...” you whisper.

“Do you want me to?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly.

“That’s the problem...” you hiccup, opening your eyes as you lightly brush your nose against his, “...I don’t.”

Spencer wanted to kiss you. How his body burned for your touch...his lips physically quivering, wishing to be against yours in a rumba of passion and time lost as he lets his fingertips dance down your sides, your womanhood filling his nose as he burrows in between your legs.

But something deep down, something that was still analyzing the situation despite his... _situation_...yanked on his chain, warning him to stay put.

And he was glad he did.

“And the funny thing is, I don’t know why,” you begin, your eyes dropping into your lap as he studies your face closely.

Feeling him pull away as he sits back onto the bed, your legs parting for him as you slowly pull them from under the covers, he reaches out for your ankles as he wraps your legs around his hips, his body sitting cross-legged on the bed as you lean your back into the voluptuous pillows of your bed.

“I um...” you stammer, looking down and picking at your nails as you swallow hard, “I wasn’t always such a cold-hearted bitch,” you choke out, more tears brewing behind your eyes as Spencer’s brow furrows in empathy.

“I mean, I don’t really remember a time where I was elatedly happy...but I do remember plenty of times where...where I wasn’t so...”

“I know,” he says, trying to urge you on.

This was the conversation he had hoped and wished for, night after night after night as your true reality started coming to the forefront.

“I just always feel like a disappointment,” you admit, your jaw quivering as your face begins to contort, “my family, they...my daddy, he...he was the best, y-...you know?” you say, looking up at Spencer as his eyes begin to redden with his own tears.

“He was...my...my hero,” you say, patting your heart with your hand as your fingers grasp your pajamas, holding them tight as you feel your chest begin to constrict.

“And losing him just...pulled whatever carpet I had woven for my-...myself just...out from under me,” you breathe, shaking your head as your chest begins to heave with your sobs.

“I always felt like my inherent unhappiness was...you know, just...just a...a..a spit in...in their...in their face, you...you know?” you hiccup, losing control of your emotions once again as your entire body begins to tremble.

“I was just...just sad for...for no reason and...and it wasn’t fair of them t-...to have a daughter so...ungrateful,” you spit out as you begin to sob, your breathes coming in heavy pants as the tears pour down your chest.

Feeling Spencer scramble, you feel him put his arm under the crook of your legs as he pulls you into his lap, your cheek laying on his shoulder as your soaking wet face buries into the crook of his neck, his arms wrapping around you tightly as he cocoons you in a warm embrace, slowly rocking you side to side as he peppers your forehead lightly with kisses.

“I miss my daddy,” you sob, your entire body quaking with sadness and an overwhelming state of fear as Spencer’s grasp on you tightens, threatening your very air supply as you nestle even closer in to him.

“I know,” he whispers, his own jaw quivering as he thinks back to his own issues with his own father, “I know.”

And as you sit there in the darkness of your bedroom, your broken-down body quivering out its own truth within the arms of a man you hadn’t even realized you had wanted, you soak his collarbone in your pent-up tears as he continues to hold you through your emotional dump, his body holding strong as yours continues to crumble.


	20. Physical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut warning for this chapter.

The last week of your emotional leave came and went, and Spencer continued to stay with you throughout the rest of your “vacation.” Even though the two of you were sleeping in your bed together in the evenings, he hadn’t made any attempt at intimacy like he had done a few days prior, and part of you was incredibly relieved, because it wasn’t an aspect of your life that you had entertained in many years.

But part of you was a little afraid, thinking that maybe your emotional moments with him over the past couple of weeks caused him to backtrack from the idea.

It wasn’t that you were begging to climb him like a tree. In fact, you probably wouldn’t know what to do, seeing as you hadn’t indulged anything of the sort since before you had obtained your Ph.D., but it had felt nice, for a split second before your inevitable verbal spew, to be desired by someone.

And you were concerned about bringing the topic up so close to returning to work.

How did you broach such a personal subject?

Certainly not with the sarcastic retorts that had become a part of your everyday vocabulary.

But did you really understand how to communicate any other way?

Did you have a middle ground between emotional babbling and emotionless snark?

“Spencer?” you ask, looking up from your book as your eyes connect with his face.

“Mhm?” he hums, his fingers dragging along the pages of his book, flipping them at a rate that still startled you to your core.

“Is there a reason why you haven’t initiated sex with me again?”

Watching his face whip up to yours, his book drops to his lap as you wince lightly.

Too blunt, Y/N. Way too blunt.

Holding his gaze as his face begins to flush a deep cherry red, he clears his throat as his hands work to get the book back up into his hands.

“I-I...I uh...well...”

You had made him incredibly uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry, it’s a really stupid question,” you ramble, trying to backtrack, “just uh...just forget it.”

Dipping your attention back to your book, you feel Spencer’s intensity vibrating towards you, his eyes locked on you as you make a conscious effort to keep your breathing steady.

“Do you want to have sex with me?” he asks, following your blunt tone as your eyes widen, your gaze raking back over to him as he sets his book, print down, on top of his thigh.

Holding his gaze, his tongue darting out lightly as you watch it wet his lips, you feel your cheeks begin to burn as you take in a deep breath through your nose.

“It’s just...before I...well, a few days ago when...and then I started crying...and it just felt...”

When your gaze panned back to Spencer, you saw him grinning at you.

“And then at night, we just...”

Thumbing over your shoulder, you find yourself at yet another crossroads with your emotions, this awkward attempt at communicating an embarrassing and personal subject leaving you at a loss for how to put English words together in a coherent sentence.

You had never struggled with expressing yourself verbally until now.

And clearly, Spencer was enjoying it.

“I just didn’t know if, maybe...my emotional incidents had...diminished my sexual appeal to you somehow,” you finally breathe.

Dropping your hand into your lap as you feel your neck begin to flush once again, your eyes drop back to your book as you stare blankly at the page in front of you.

“No. It hasn’t,” you hear Spencer say.

Nodding lightly, you begin to read the sentence at the top of the page, repeating it over and over again as your mind continues to dance elsewhere.

Typical Y/N, always trying to cover things up.

“Is that all?” Spencer asks, his voice slightly lower than usual.

“Yes,” you breathe, continuing to read the same sentence over and over again.

“You gonna flip that page?” he asks.

You could hear the smug grin dripping from his tone of voice.

“I don’t read as fast as you do,” you state plainly.

But Spencer began to analyze you, the way a profiler analyzes a suspect, and he realized what you had begun to do.

“Don’t back away from me, Y/N,” he begs, “I was only bantering with you.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say, hearing your tone of voice even out as the words come slurring from your mouth.

“Y/N,” Spencer says as he gets up from his chair, walking over to the couch as he sits down next to you, “I’m not wanting to make any move you’re uncomfortable with, or take advantage of any sort of...emotional weak-link...that may be exposed right now. You’re healing from and dealing with a lot. Do I want you? Yes. Do I think you’re beautiful? Yes. Do I enjoy slipping into bed beside you at night? Yes. But I’m not going to take advantage of the situation.”

“But you wouldn’t be taking advantage,” you say, moving your gaze over to him as you set your book off to the side.

“I just want to be sure of that,” he says lowly, bringing his thumb up as he trails it across your lower lip.

Then, after a brief bout of silence, you hear him suck in a shallow breath.

“It feels really good to be wanted,” he murmurs.

“I know...” you trail off, locking your gaze with him once more as you search his eyes.

You slowly saw his pupils blow themselves up in the midst of his beautifully-colored irises.

“Spencer...” you breathe.

“Yes, Y/N?”

“Kiss me.”

And before you had to tell him twice, his lips were on yours, pressing into your warmth as his arms snake around your waist, pulling you into his lap on the couch as your head slowly lobs off to the side, your tongue probing for entrance as his lips part, allowing you to taste him fully as his hands begin to meander up your shirt.

The touch of his warm palms against the cool skin of your back made you shiver in his lap.

Moaning lightly into his lips as you wrap your arms gently around his neck, you feel his hands slip down to your ass, cupping your cheeks lightly as he begins to slowly move your hips along his rising erection, your breasts brushing up against him with every roll he guides you through.

“If you get uncomfortable-”

“Shut up and take me,” you whisper desperately into his lips, causing him to flip you onto your back, the two of you sliding onto the floor as your legs wrap and lock around his hips.

The way his body melded into yours made your core burn for him.

“Holy god,” he breathes into your skin, trailing his lips down as he begins to suckle at the plump of your breast.

“No hickies,” you breathe, your hands flying to his hair as your mind thinks to the inevitable return to work in the morning.

“No visible hickies,” Spencer growls, digging his teeth into the flesh of your breasts as he bites down, causing you to arch your back into him as his hands flutter up your shirt.

You were intoxicated by the way Spencer marked you...his teeth nipping your skin as his warm tongue sucked and dragged and danced along your body.

You wanted to be covered in his ownership.

“Ho, god,” you breathe out into the room, feeling his lips rake down your stomach as your muscles jump, your hips grinding into his chest as he draws in random patches of skin on your stomach, causing your core to contract as waves of warmth radiate to your throbbing pelvis.

Your panting spurred on his marking.

Soon, you were covered in dozens of black-marked hickies, some so ferocious that teeth marks were left behind, the red indentations pooling with Spencer’s spit as his watering mouth trails down to your womanhood, his nose nuzzling the clothed warmth of your caverns as your breath hitches in your throat.

This was something you didn’t even know you needed until the possibility arose.

“Oh Spencer...please,” you whisper lightly.

“God, how I wish I had the willpower to tease you more,” Spencer breathes, his fingers moving your thin layer of panties to the side as he dips his tongue in deep, swirling around as your legs swing over his shoulders.

Feeling his tongue lick and suckle, your hips bucking up against his scruff as his lips drag across your sensitive areas, you find your chest arching off of the floor as uncontrollable sounds pour from your lips, your tongue unable to articulate the name you wished so desperately to cry out as your hips gyrate against his face.

The moaning he was doing was enough to make your eyes water.

Feeling the tears begin to slip down your skin, the stress bubbling to the surface as you clamp your thighs down onto the sides of Spencer’s face, he sucks your swollen clit into his mouth as his ministrations throw you over the edge, a throaty cry ripping from your throat as your legs shake and your torso pulls taut.

Your orgasm crashed through your body, forcing the last of your darkness to pool between your legs as Spencer’s warm tongue laps it up, drinking his fill until there was no more pouring out for him.  
Audibly panting as your legs fall free, you feel Spencer peel your underwear off of your legs, lifting your feet as he casts them off to the side.

Spencer took the time to undress himself as you lay there on the carpet, shaking lightly from your high as he appears in your vision, his face glistening lightly as he smiles, a finger coming into view as he lightly wipes away a strand of hair before settling in between your legs.

“I want you,” you breathe lightly, your eyes locking with his as he reaches in between your bodies, lining himself up with your glistening entrance.

“You have me,” he whispers, his eyes locking onto your face as he pushes in, your eyes fluttering closed as the two of you groan in unison.

It had been so, so long...

“Oh, Y/N,” Spencer pants in surprise, his eyes widening lightly as he dips his forehead to yours, your legs locking around him to pull him closer....deeper...

“I wasn’t lying,” you snicker lightly.

Feeling him twitch inside of you, he brings both of his forearms up and rests them beside your head, cupping your cheeks with your hands as he looks into your eyes, his expression slowly morphing from one of carnal cravings to one of...

...of...

.......you weren’t familiar with this look.

“What’s wrong?” Spencer asks, sitting sheathed within you as he cocks his head lightly.

“I’m just...trying to figure your expression out,” you say as you furrow your brow, “I’ve never seen it before.”

Then his expression morphed into one of sadness.

“Oh, Y/N...” he coos, brushing your hair back once again as you furrow your brow deeper.

“What?” you ask.

Feeling him slowly draw his pelvis back, he re-sheathes himself slowly as you draw in a long breath, your hips slowly rising to meet his as he kisses the tip of your nose.

“Do that again,” you breathe.

Feeling him pump, constantly filling you with every thrust, you feel your jaw lazily peel open as his name begins to fall from your mouth, his lips puckering with every thrust as your walls begin to pulsate around him, swelling his dick as he begins to pick up his pace.

“That’s it...oh, god...please...please, Spencer, please.”

Your breathy remarks made him shiver as your fingertips raked down his back.

“Please...oh, god...Spe-...n-...uuuuuh.”

And before you knew it, your chest was arching into him, your breasts bouncing against his heaving sternum as your walls clench down around his thick erection, your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you press yourself firmly into the carpet.

“Oooooooooh, gooooooooood,” you throatily moan, feeling Spencer bite down onto your shoulder as his pelvis stills, buried to his balls as he pumps his salty fluid into your body, marking his territory once more before dropping to his forearms, his eyes opening to meet your gaze as his hair falls into his face.

And there it was once again.

That stare.

That... _expression_...that you couldn’t figure out.

“That,” you breathe as your hand falls off to the side, your breasts bouncing freely as you slowly feel Spencer pull out of you, “What is that expression?” you ask.

And, like clockwork, the same sad expression takes its place as Spencer pushes your coffee table out of the way, falling over to your side as he helps you roll over into him.

“Adoration, Y/N,” he says before kissing your forehead lightly as he cups your cheek, causing your eyes to close as you drink in the sound of his voice, “it’s a look of adoration.”

No wonder you didn’t recognize it.

And no wonder it made him so sad.


	21. Enlightenment

The return to work was a bit more climactic than you would have liked. The entire team was there, greeting you with smiles and hugs, despite your nasty history with them. They all told you that they were there if you ever needed them, and they even had a bit of a “coming out” party, where fruit and pastries as well as coffee were had by everyone in the conference room before you guys sat down and discussed the latest case in front of you.

You and Spencer never did get around to talking about “that night.”

Which was understandable. You had been in a very vulnerable position, and you had outright asked him a very blunt question, and in return he had given you a very blunt answer.

But it wasn’t that night that had you perplexed and curious.

It was all of the nights in between cases, when Spencer would escort you home and stick around, climbing into bed with you at night and holding you close that had you wondering about the true nature of your relationship.

You were painfully aware that the team knew that something was going on between the two of you. Derek and J.J. caught his lingering looks, while Hotch and Garcia were hot on your tail the night you both traipsed into the office at 2 am for an emergency kidnapping case wearing Spencer’s sweater instead of yours.

The only person that didn’t seem phased about it was Rossi.

“David, can I talk to you for a second?” you ask.

Furrowing his brow as he turns to you, he sets his folder down and begins walking your way, with Spencer’s full attention on you both as the two of you slip into the mini kitchenette off in the corner.

“Everything alright?” Rossi asks as you turn around and lean into the counter with your buttocks.

“Everyone has something to say about whatever is brewing between Spencer and I,” you start, the bluntness coming to a head as Rossi’s eyebrows raise up, “but you haven’t said a word about it. Why?”

“You want it blunt?” he asks.

“Better than sugar-coated,” you state, crossing your arms in front of you as you lock your eyes with his.

“Spencer’s an addict,” he starts.

“What’s his past issue with Dilaudid got to do with me?” you ask.

“Just because he isn’t addicted to a substance doesn’t mean he isn’t addicted,” Rossi replies.

“This doesn’t seem very blunt,” you murmur, cocking your eyebrow in the air.

As Rossi chuckles, you find the slightest grin tick up on your cheek.

“Y/N,” he begins, “after Spencer kicked his drug addiction, he threw himself into his work. He became a work addict, like Hotch,” he says as he motions his head up to the boss’s office.

“Then you happened, and he became addicted to unraveling your secret,” Rossi states, studying your facial expressions deeply as you swallow hard.

“And now? He’s just flat-out addicted to you,” he finishes.

“He...he uh...he is?” you ask, clearing your throat as your eyes flicker over towards Spencer, catching his piercing gaze as he desperately tries to figure out what the two of you are talking about.

“Yes. When I saw him become intrigued with you, I knew that he would stay hooked...at least until he figured out what was going on.”

“But then he did,” you state.

“Yes. He did,” Rossi grins.

“So why is he still around?” you ask pointedly, bringing your gaze slowly back over to Rossi’s.

“Because he’s addicted to you.”

“What happens when he’s had his fill of me?” you ask sadly.

“That’s the thing about addicts, beautiful,” Rossi says as he reaches out for your arm, grasping it lightly in between his fingers, “they don’t give something up unless they feel a desperate need to.”

“Do you think I’m bad for him, David?” you ask desperately, your eyes glistening as Rossi embraces you in a hug.

“I think you’re the best addiction he could have hoped for,” he murmurs closely into your ear.


	22. Step Forward

You were aware of the books that Spencer kept concealed from you. He would always have two books with him: the one to distract you and the one he was reading. His distraction book would always be one you knew he read time and time again...things like War and Peace and his insanely long Korean novels. But the books he always concealed from you were various texts and bound journals of peer-reviewed studies and articles on various ways to cope with, treat, and help someone with depression.

It was sweet of him to want to help so badly, you just didn’t understand why he was attempting to hide it from you. You trusted him with so much more than anyone you had ever come into contact with, and yet he still felt this overwhelming need to hide this from you.

And it hurt.

“Spencer?” you ask as you turn over in bed.

“Mhm?” he hums.

“What are we doing?”

Feeling him turn over as his shadowed face comes into view in the darkened bedroom, you hear him sigh lightly as you shuffle yourself under the covers.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“I mean, it’s been three months since I’ve been back to work, and ever since you haven’t left my side. We sit on the plane together, we eat lunches together, we brainstorm on cases together. We spit sarcastic remarks at each other, and when we fly home, we always end up here...in my bed...holding each other as we sleep.”

“Is that bothering you?” he asks lightly.

“Not at all,” you admit, “I just...don’t understand.”

Spencer knew this conversation would happen eventually, he just didn’t want you to feel as if you had to be pushed to have it. He wanted everything that happened between the two of you to happen in your own time.

He could wait...as long as it meant you in the end.

“Do you not understand because you’re confused, or do you not understand because you’ve never done this before?” Spencer asks as his hand drifts to your face, his thumb smoothing lightly over the apple of your cheek.

“Both,” you reply.

“Spencer,” you whisper, scooting closer to him as you slip your leg in between his, “you haven’t slept in your apartment for more than 10 nights combined in the last three months,” you say, chuckling lightly as you bring your hand up and place it over his, nuzzling into the palm of his hand.

“Yeah,” he giggles, “I suppose that’s true.”

Silence.

“I know you’ve been reading books and journals on depression,” you state.

You felt him freeze.

“Why did you feel the need to hide it from me?” you whisper.

“I just...”

Hearing him swallow hard, you slide his hand off of your face and place it between the two of you, your own hand coming up to him as you place it delicately on his neck, tracing circles on his collarbone.

“I’m not upset,” you state, “I just don’t know why you hid it.”

“I just didn’t think you were ready for someone to help,” he admits, “but I...I wanted t-...to be ready, you know...in case you asked one day.”

And that was it.

This man, who had been slowly chiseling away at the ice surrounding the walls of your heart for months, had finally chipped away the last bit as you felt the rotted, mushy wooden walls of your soul slide to the ground, revealing a hurt, scared, confused little girl, who wanted nothing more than to smile at her face in the mirror and enjoy getting up in the morning.

“That’s the thing,” you choke out, tears sliding down your cheeks as you take in a shaky breath, “I don’t have to ask when I’m with you.”

“Why not?” Spencer breathes, his brow furrowed in confusion at the change of tone in your voice.

“Because you already do help,” you breathe, sliding your lips towards him as you envelope his in a salty kiss, his hands sliding around your waist as he rolls you on top of him, his legs falling off to the sides as your body sinks down in between, your tongues dancing together as you snake your hands around behind his shoulders, holding his broad chest against your body.

Letting go of his lips, you scoot down and lay your head on his chest, his fingers dancing in your hair as you sniffle, your body shaking on top of his as he pulls the covers up to your shoulders.

“I love you, Y/N,” Spencer says.

“Oh, Spencer,” you breathe, leaning up and kissing the middle of his chest as you nuzzle your nose against his skin, “I love you, too.”

“...so know that when I say this, it’s coming from a deep place of mutual affection,” he begins.

Furrowing your brow, your muscles tense up as you brace for what he is about to say.

You brace for his rejection. You brace for his regret.

And you brace for his inevitable anger.

“But you know that’s not how your depression works. I know that I’m not the cure-all for what you’re feeling, and I know you’re gonna have bad days...really, really, really bad days.”

Huh?

“And I know that there isn’t much that can be done about that. I know that there’s a combination of medication out there for you, but I also know that it can takes weeks, sometimes even months, to find the right one. A-a-and even then, it takes constant monitoring and tweaking whenever your body changes, like with hormonal issues or pregnancy.”

Wait...babies!?

You weren’t aware that your physical grip on him was becoming tighter.

“What I do know,” he says as he traces circles on the exposed part of your back, “is that whenever you are ready to explore options and finding ways to cope, that I want to be the person you come to. The person you can lean on. The person you can ask any question to who will have the answer. That’s why I’m reading the material. So that I can be the strongest rock I can possibly be for you.”

“Y/N?” he asks breathlessly.

But you didn’t hear him.

“Y/N...?” he squeaks, “I can’t breathe...” he struggles to say.

“Oh, god! Sorry! Sorry, sorr,y sorry...” you say, letting go of him as he takes in a deep breath.

Silence yet again.

“Did you just admit to wanting babies with me?” you smirk, turning your head to your chin is resting on his chest, your eyes dancing along his face as his stare locks too hard onto the ceiling.

“I uh...I mean it was just a-”

“Spencer want some baaaabies, he wants to be a daaaaaddy,” you begin to chant.

“He wants to love all ooooooon me and be my baby daaaaaaddy.”

“Y/N!” he laughs, flipping you over as he lays on top of you, this time nestling between your legs as his face hovers over yours.

“It’s not the worst idea, right?” he asks, brushing some hair out of your face as you smile kindly at him.

“Definitely not the worst idea,” you confirm.

And as Spencer’s eyes lock onto yours, his face now morphing into the expression you know so dearly by now, you pull your arms out from underneath him as you run them along his arms, eventually getting to his shoulders as a smolder comes across your face.

“When does your apartment lease end?” you ask.

“One month and 17 days,” he states, making you chuckle and shake your head lightly, “Why?”

“Oh...I don’t know,” you playfully retort as your fingertips slowly dance around behind his neck, curling up into his hair as you feel his skin begin to pucker, “I was just thinking,” you say.

“About what?” Spencer says, his voice lowering to that beautiful tone that always graced your ear late at night.

“We’re gonna have to spend a lot of time together if we eventually want babies,” you playfully say.

“Mhmmmm...” Spencer hums, bending his head into the crook of your neck as he places a warm kiss on your skin.

“And we can’t afford to miss any nights with one another, especially since work takes so much of our time...” you trail off.

“Mhmmmmm...” he hums against your skin, causing you to sigh lightly as he supports himself on his forearms, the tendrils of his hair brushing against your now-sensitive skin.

“And you did say you wanted to help me with bad days,” you point out.

“Oh, yes,” he whispers, trailing his kisses slowly along your exposed cleavage.

“All of those tasks would be much easier met, and more convenient on your gas mileage, if you just moved in.”

The sentiment stopped him in his tracks.

Watching as his gaze whips up to yours, you lift your head and stare at him as his expression remains blank.

“Y-you...want me to...move in...with you?” he asks, his voice upticking with every breath.

“Yes,” you say confidently, easing yourself up into your own forearms as you shift yourself out from under Spencer, his body sitting back on his feet as you lock onto the silhouette of his body in the dark.

“I want you to move in with me,” you breathe.

The tension in the air was palpable.

“Yes,” you hear him whisper.

You weren’t even sure you heard him right.

“What was that?” you ask.

And as his body barrels into yours, his hands everywhere as he wraps his right arm around your shoulder and down your back, holding you close to his chest as his left hand begins to slowly trail up your leg, you wrap your arms around his neck as he brings his lips down into your ear.

“Yes,” he breathes, causing your body to shiver, “I would love to move in with you.”


	23. Epilogue

“Reid, you know where Y/L/N is?”

As Spencer whips his phone out just as his boss’s words fall hard on his ears, he hits the number “1″ on his phone and presses the green call button, your phone ringing in his ear as he shuffles nervously from foot to foot.

“Come on,” Spencer murmurs.

Sighing as you peel your eyes open, you see the beautiful sun streaming through the jagged curtains as you slip your hand out from under the covers, your hand flopping onto your bedside table as you pick it up and see who’s calling.

Spencer.

Feeling tired just reading his name, you set your phone back down and roll over, sighing heavily as the weight of the world begins crushing your shoulders down into the mattress, your body sinking into the pillow-top mattress as your phone stops buzzing.

Finally...some peace.

“Y/N,” Spencer begins on your voicemail, “you’re due back in today. If you’re not in the office in 10 minutes, I’m coming to look for you.”

“Isn’t she due back from her vacation time today?” Morgan asks as he approaches Spencer.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

The past few months for the two of you had been wonderful. Spencer let his lease run out, and had moved most of his stuff that he didn’t sell off into the house with you. The two of you switched off as to who stayed back with Garcia and who went with the team in terms of cases, and on the occasional moment where all of you were needed in the field, Rossi had quickly taken up the role as your partner, making sure you and Spencer followed protocol to the letter whilst in the field.

Spencer knew this week would be hard for you. It would have been a year after losing your father, and he suggested you take a bit of time off, both from the team and from him, so that you could grieve the way you were used to without the added pressures of working or having to play strong for him. So, for the week, he had packed up and decided to stay with Morgan.

After all, while he loved you dearly and the time you spent together, it was refreshing to be with his best guy friend.

And he always reassured you that, if it ever got to be too much, he was just a phone call away and would always be there to hold you steady until you planted your feet back on the ground.

You were thankful to have fallen in love with a man who understood your desperate need to cling just as much as he understood your nagging need to be alone.

Feeling the tears rise again in your eyes, you roll over and curl up into a ball, drawing your knees into your chest as you bury your tired, puffy, wet face into your pillow.

How your heart ached for your father.

The smell of his cologne.

The scent of his tobacco.

The mint of his chewing gum.

The sturdiness of his body.

The warmth of his hug...

Today was a bad day.

Today was a really, really, _really_ bad day.

Feeling your chest heave as silent sobs wrack your body, you hear your phone begin buzzing again as you cringe at the noise, bringing the comforter up over your head as you try to burrow away from the noise.

Away from your reality.

Away from the death of your daddy...

“Spence...” J.J. coos, putting a hand on his shoulder as his worried eyes turn to look at her, “go get her.”

“Something’s not right,” he says, shaking his head as he looks up at Hotch, “something isn’t right.”

“Go,” Aaron says, nodding his head towards the door.

And Spencer didn’t have to be told twice.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You had been so proud of yourself.

You had been _so_ strong, and _so_ sturdy.

You were so proud of being able to stand at your father’s grave, his anniversary looming over you, as you sat flowers on his grave, eating your picnic lunch as you told him of the life you had created for yourself in his absence. You were so proud for telling him about Spencer...how you had opened yourself up to love and began not loving only him, but yourself as well.  
You were so proud of yourself when you walked away, feeling nothing else but the tears in your eyes.

But as you lay in bed, the day after, all you felt was empty.

Empty and guilty...for not being strong enough.

Bringing your hand up to your face as you sniffle and brush the matted hair away from your forehead, you sigh heavily as your joints begin to ache, your legs slowly stretching out as the tears continue their assault on the pillow below your cheek.

You were so distracted by your feelings that you hadn’t heard the door to your bedroom open.  
“Y/N?” Spencer asks.

Holding your breath as you long for your body to stop shaking, you feel the side of the bed behind you dip down as Spencer reaches out, placing a hand in the dip of your waist on top of the comforter.

“Sssshhhh...” he coos, rubbing his hand lightly as your mouth betrays you, a whimpering sob escaping your lips as you quickly draw in a shaky breath.

“I’m gonna pull the comforter down just a bit, alright?” he asks.

But as you shook your head no, you felt the warmth and protection of the blanket yield to Spencer’s touch as you feel the sunlight of the morning grate against your eyes.

Squeezing them shut as you hiccup another sob, you feel Spencer’s fingers lightly work the hair out of your face as he examines the hot red tear trails along your cheeks, with your darkened circles under your eyes and your trembling body.  
“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispers, kicking his shoes off and laying down in bed next to you, his body slipping underneath the blanket as he presses his warm, strong, reassuring body next to yours.

You felt him slip his arm around your waist as your body continues to wrack itself with sobs.

“Talk to me,” he urges.

“I did so good y-y...yester-...-terday,” you stammer in between your breaths.

“I know you did. You called me, remember? I’m so proud of you,” he coos as he kisses your bare shoulder.

You called him?

“It’s ok if you don’t remember,” Spencer says.

Sighing heavily, you wiggle your body lightly as you press it further into his, his arm holding you closer as your leg instinctively slips in between his.

Your body had always felt drawn to him.

“The team is worried about you...” he trails off.

“It’s just-”

Pausing as you close your eyes, you let out a light whimper, almost as if the admission was going to cause you physical pain.

“...a bad day?” Spencer breathes.

And you felt yourself nod.

The first truly bad day since Spencer had moved in, and you couldn’t even vocalize it on your own.

How pathetic.

“You’re not weak... _or_ pathetic,” he says.

“How do you do that?” you ask lightly.

“Do what?” he inquires.

“How do you always know what I’m thinking about myself?” you ask, finally finding the strength to turn over, groaning as you shift in his arm to face him.

“Because...” he starts, bringing his fingers up and tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “...because I love you.”

“That’s not a reason,” you snicker ever so lightly.

“It is. I know what you’re thinking because I study you. I watch you. I watch how you react, and I listen to things you say. I watch you in the field and when you’re doing paperwork. I eavesdrop sometimes on conversations you’re having with the team, and I listen... _really_ listen...to when we're talking late at night in bed.”

“And what does that have to do with loving me?” you ask flatly, your face falling as Spencer’s eyes dance along your face.

“Because loving you is the reason,” he coos.

Swallowing hard as you feel your eyes fill to the brim with tears again, you close them as they begin trickling down your cheek.

Except now, Spencer was there to catch them.

Just like he had promised.

“I love you...so much, Spencer,” you choke out in a whisper.

Feeling the bed shift as you feel his lips descend lightly upon yours, you press your face into his before he pulls his lips away, your eyes fluttering open as you are met with his beautifully haunting eyes.

“My body hurts,” you admit.

“I know,” he says, bringing his palm to your cheek as he cups your face, “why don’t we take a hot bath together while I hold you some more, and then we can slowly get ourselves together and maybe get lunch?”

“I’m due back to work today...” you sigh.

“I’m sure they won’t mind if we come back after lunch,” Spencer smiles, “after all, it’s just a day of paperwork.”

“Ugh. Paperwork,” you groan, rolling over as your eyes connect with the ceiling of your room, “that, in and of itself, is enough to make someone cry.”

“Come on, Miss Melodramatic,” Spencer says, snaking his arm behind your back as he helps you upright, “I’ll begin the bath while you peel these clothes off.”

“You could peel ‘em off for me,” you say lowly, your eyebrows wiggling playfully as Spencer stands up and turns to you, a very stern look on his face.

“Don’t back away from me, Y/N,” he says, “it’s alright to have bad days. I’m here for you.”

Feeling your face drop as you nod your head, your eyes drop to his feet as you shift your legs over the side of the bed, “I know.”

“I’m always gonna be here for you,” he says, taking your hands within his as he helps you to your feet, your body swaying lightly as he wraps his arms around you to steady you.

And as you sigh, leaning your throbbing head into the middle of his chest, you lose yourself in the rhythm of his heartbeat as you wrap your arms around his waist, his lips coming down and connecting with the top of your head as he runs his fingers through your hair.

“We’ll get through this day together,” Spencer reassures you lowly, the vibrations of his voice rumbling against your body as your lips pucker to kiss his clothed chest.

“I believe you,” you admit, nodding your head against him as you feel him smile into your hair.

“Good.”


End file.
